


Qua Process / Qua Being

by salamanderinspace



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Alcohol, Balem Was Bitten Theory, Bloodlust, Bondage, Drinking, Evil Me Scares Me, F/M, Gen, Genetic Engineering, Genetics, Hard Science, Homoerotic flirting, Hunting, Invented War, Legion - Freeform, Loss of Control, M/M, Military Training, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Motherhood, Partly Fake Hard Science, Piles of Drama, Space capitalism, Timeline What Timeline, Violence, close 3rd person POV, scent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 21:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3625050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamanderinspace/pseuds/salamanderinspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcellian Cahun thought she could build a revolution.</p><p>Caine has a problem. Only one can help.</p><p>Floats around the canon timeline (a little before, a little after, a little during.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something exploring an interpretation of Caine's "Entitled Instinct" as the Uncontrollable Bloodlust trope. It became this whole…story thing.

**THEN**

"Well, men," Stinger shouted. "You know why we're here."

Caine Wise shook rain from his eyes and spat rain from his mouth. It was warm, sharp, just a little brackish: low-atmosphere rain that had not ceased falling since he'd arrived. Caine knew that storms were used to test the new recruits, to build tolerance and focus in a batch of fresh-made part-humans. He had not anticipated how severe it would feel. A constant roar of downpour muffled the soldiers' enhanced senses. Pants, groans, and Stinger's fearsome orders all faded under the sensation of water on skin, cold and pressurized: enough to make the body numb, to block other feelings. Most of all, the rain muted smells. Caine continuously found himself choked by the smell of water—high-acid water, carrying the sediment and protozoa of a foreign world, but water nontheless. He could not stand, speak, or breathe at times. Despite the exhaustion and near suffocation, Caine kept his head high in a sea of muscle and storm. _Runt pups learn not to breathe,_ Stinger had said. _Or else they drown._

"You have an opportunity!" Stinger was almost hoarse. Almost inaudible in the deepening wave. "THE opportunity to be THE generation of splices to bring in a new age!" 

Fifty splices, built for all-weather endurance and designed for social cohesion, breathed, marched, screamed, and grunted through a sheet of perpetual water. They were men and women, bees, lions, and dogs. If not for the onslaught of rain, Caine knew he would smell damp fur, dark mud, and sweat like rancid milk. That, and the Dowels. But then, even in rain, even through layers of metal or canvas, Caine could always smell the Tracking Dowels. The Dowels were what kept him there.

Stinger strode in and out of formation, spurring the recruits on, revving them up with contact-signals and the cadence under his accent. He crossed the yard--nearly a lake, now--and tore open a tarp containing the forty-nine Dowels. They were rods, red-brown, each about the length of an arm: nothing special to see, but they weren't made to be seen. They were made to be desired. A scent broke over the landscape, overwhelming, overpowering. Caine would know it anywhere. It was a designed smell: specifically engineered to broach the olfactory nerve and ride into the limbic system of a Splice. Caine was a designed man, too, and this scent was bred into his understanding of the world. The Dowels were food. They were life. He did not know how or why they were made. He only knew his hunger.

"WHO IS YOUR ENEMY?" Stinger bellowed.

"Igdrys!" barked the phalanx.

"That’s right! There is an axis forming," Stinger shouted. “Among the wicked Houses. They sell us space in their cages. They profit off the powerless. They call themselves the Igdryssi. With me here, I have Idgrys. I HAVE THEIR BONES!” Caine was beyond listening to the commander's words. He gave himself over to the rhapsody of rain, and to the smell--something like ash, and meat, and bread baking. Ripples ran through Caine's genome, waking the helicase and polymerase, reminding him of his singular purpose. _Destroy the Igdryssi. Board their ships. Crush their planets. Break their bones. Devour._ These were the instructions. Caine knew that the Dowels were meant as effigy, a symbol, but they also contained real genetic material from enemy targets. How else could the Legionnaires be shaped around that _hunger_?

Stinger threw a handful of Dowels into the air. Their odor dispersed. The first few disappeared to the largest and strongest. These were yields to alphas, sacrificial totems of pack law; this must be observed. Caine said a small thanks that he was not positioned near these men. He was unsure whether he could coerce his instincts to quiet, even when faced with Lycantants twice his size. Once, he'd lunged for a Dowel, only to wake up in a cloud of Recell, clawmarks down his face and arms. The memory wouldn't stop him. He'd fight anyone, anytime for the prize he'd been trained to covet.

Thunder struck, hammering, drumming on the atmosphere. "The Abrasax family and a dozen others stand with Igdryssi," Stinger was saying. "YOU are the ones who can stop them! What will you DO?"

"Kill them!" roared the crowd.

"GOOD. GO." Stinger stuffed a handful of Dowels into a launcher, aimed it on the far horizon, and fired. Forty-some odd devices disappeared in deadly storm clouds; Caine could still smell them. His neuro-synaptic implants exploded from his back. He leapt into the air.

"Remember!" Stinger's voice trailed away as Caine--and forty others--left the surface. Caine's entire frame of vision filed with silver wings slicing the cascade of water. "Glory to those who retrieve the Dowels! Successful Hunters find glory and praise!” Caine didn't need a reminder. He was hurtling toward turbulence, smashing through pound after pound of water and wind. He was fearless.

"You'll bring back the bones of Igdryssi, Skyjackers!" Stinger roared. "Or you'll sleep outside!" 

 

**NOW**

"So what even is the Legion?"

Jupiter and Kalique strode arm in arm down a broken stone road over beautiful, wild Cerise. A light morning mist was fading. Weak sun peeked through silver clouds to illuminate the lush, overgrown gorge. Three little waterfalls decorated the trail, crystal and rainbow.

The two women were accompanied by a great many people: servants, guests, sims--even a few friendly faces. Jupiter had made many new friends in six short months of biweekly space visits. Kalique kept inviting her back to Cerise, and Jupiter generally obliged. There was always so much to see, learn, and explore, now that the little game of Abrasax-family kidnapping-tag was behind them. Kalique had answers for all of Jupiter's questions; if it weren't for the ever-present shadow of the RegenX-E trade, Jupiter might even want to stay longer.

"My goodness! Such inquiries you bring me, Jupiter Jones. I begin to wonder whether your curiosity is all that lures you to my little rendezvous." _Rendezvous_ was not the most thorough description of the event they were attending. It was much more than a simple rendezvous. There was always something elaborate, luxurious, and exciting; this time, Jupiter had been informed, they were going "Charadriffing." "Not unlike what your people would call a 'fox hunt'," Kalique had explained. "Or…a falcon party?" 

Except, from what Jupiter could tell, this was the opposite of a hunting party. They all wore very decadent clothing, carried very impractical weapons (to match their clothing), and walked at a leisurely pace through brightly lit woods. Any actual "hunting" was done by drones, who effortlessly zipped in and out of the trees, catching, killing, plucking, and even cooking small game and fowl right on the spot. 

"I love getting to know you, Kalique. And your whole…lifestyle," Jupiter reassured her hostess. "It's just--you know so much that I don't."

"Oh, pssh. It'll all come to you in time," Kalique replied. "Time cures all. The things that matter come quite naturally."

"Right," Jupiter sighed. It wasn't coming naturally. It was coming slowly. With Caine about to start his new deployment any day, she needed to know things, things he might not be able to fully explain. Plus--Jupiter smirked discreetly to herself--they'd maybe been a little too busy doing things. Things that didn't involve talking.

Kalique seemed to read her thoughts. "Hmmm. How goes life with Mr. Wise?"

"Good! That's why I was asking about the Legion, actually. It seems like he's going to go back to it."

"Oh, you poor lonesome thing! I'm sure he won't be away for long," she mused. A drone buzzed by, offered up a tray of some fully-prepared canapes. “He just needs to recertify, then the Hall of Titles can reassign him to serve your House…”

“Is that how it works?” Jupiter pressed. “Legionnaires serve the Houses?”

Kalique seemed to wake, as if from a trance. "Right, the Legion. Well, they're our footmen, aren't they? They keep the peace between us. Sometimes with military action.”

"So Caine can be assigned to come work for me? On Earth?” Jupiter was surprised, but she shouldn't have been. The Houses were powerful; there had to be something behind that sway. 

“Certainly. You have a certain number of footsoldiers, Skyjackers, etcetera allotted through your tax status. Haven’t you read the Entitled Code?”

“Mostly,” she replied. "It’s a pretty stiff read. Now, is there a lot of fighting between Houses? Conflicts that my…footsoldiers…would have to be involved in?"

"As much as you've seen, and more. Why, even since you've joined us--the blink of an eye!---haven't we all hired the help of Legion Hunters?" Kalique toyed with the glittering, fuchsia shotgun she'd brought to accessorize her ensemble. She carried it daintily over her shoulder, like a parasol.

"Right, yeah. I remember from when you all took turns kidnapping me." Jupiter ducked under a flowering branch. "So what about the Aegis? And the Keepers? Can't they help settle our conflicts?"

"They are not necessarily under our command. Titus and I rely heavily on our Legionnaires; Balem is more inclined to trust the Shadows, or his own Sargorns. He does not believe the Skyjackers ever fully came over to the Igdryssi."

"What's the Igdryssi?"

"Just an old, fancy name for all the most powerful Houses. Abrasax among them. It just means ‘giants.’" They reached a perfectly shaded glen, and Kalique halted. The hunting party had been murmuring in soft conversation; now, many quieted, admiring the trees and awaiting Kalique's next whim. 

"Huh. So, wait…Balem doesn't trust the Skyjackers? Who were they loyal to, before the Igdryssi?"

Kalique smiled. "It really is extraordinary, how little you Tersies know about the world!" Suddenly, and without warning, Kalique swung the jeweled shotgun skyward and fired. The air filled with the sound of wings, followed by a "thump." Something like a quail fell dead to the ground. 

Jupiter could not believe the weapon had actually been functional. _And loud._ Kalique knelt and, with a satin-gloved hand, lifted what was left of the feathered thing. 

"There!" she said delightedly, extending her arm to Jupiter. "I've got one for you! I hate to dirty my hands, but…" she smiled. "Mother did _so_ love birds."

 

**THEN**

Stinger Apini bent over the filthiest glass in the filthiest bar in all the Canabulum. He squinted through darkness into the slick, rust-colored drink, watching particles settle into chunks. There were no answers at the bottom of that glass. 

Stinger always had too many fires to put out. For starters, there was Kiza. Every tick, every moment, Stinger's mind traveled home to her. He’d had to move her twice this cycle; she wasn't adjusting well to their new station. _Unsurprising, really, since she’s just lost her mother,_ he thought. He worried. Kiza was just getting to an age where she'd learned how to act out, sneak around, stay out late—it was getting dangerous. Of course, that was only part of the larger danger. 

Since the Igdryssi had taken control, life was hell. Splices were forbidden to assemble, to reproduce, to live normal lives. Kiza would grow up with sub-human legal status, constantly dodging the specter of gene plagues and unrestricted violence against splices. The Aegis could do nothing—even they could not be counted on, as they were easily corrupted by the wealthy Entitled. Stinger had taken an Aegis shuttle out that night, but he would rent his own transport to get home. A drunk splice traveling alone was bound to end up in chains, in the basement of some off-world factory. Stinger wouldn’t risk a shake-down or abduction.

Then there was the Legion. There was a whole new order: one that revolved around redistributing and reprogramming the Skyjacker units to protect House greed and dynastic struggle. _This is all that's left, now,_ he realized. _Now that Marcellian is gone._

Stinger took a sip of his drink. He stared into a timepiece over the doorway. He was halfway to the chunks at the bottom of the glass when Caine Wise finally appeared. 

"You're late," Stinger declared.

"We need to talk."

"So you said." Stinger would never have gone out that night if not for the pleas of the desperate, half albino runt. Caine had begged for a meeting, and Stinger agreed, despite the danger. Caine was like a son. _Almost as much trouble as my other bairn._

Caine surveyed the dark room. Stinger thought he saw the boy’s nostrils flare. “Why did you chose this place?” Caine asked. “It smells awful.”

“You know why. We won’t be seen here. The Igdryssi have eyes everywhere.”

"I can't take this, Stinger. I can't take this new post. We have to keep fighting."

"You don't understand. It's over. Treaties have been signed. The Igdryssi are the Entitled now."

Caine shook his head, agitated. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "It doesn't feel over. Are you sure…are you sure Marcellian is dead?" 

"Don't…!" Stinger glanced around, apprehensively. They were alone. The octopus splice who _supposedly_ kept bar was slumped, half-in-the-bag, in a corner. "Don't talk about the Designers here. Don’t talk about her.”

Marcellian was ancient and all-knowing--an architect of the Great Expansion. She had been there when the first humans left Orous, and when the first splicers laid the groundwork for seeding hostile worlds. A protein here, a nitrogenous base there--Marcellian was a magnificent Designer. She had given humanity so much in Faster Than Light, genome-engineering, and terraforming. Of course, other scientists would build on her discoveries. She never patented anything. She was wildly intelligent, patient, and she viewed the human race as a single, collaborative unit. A hive. Marcellian could not abide the competitive and fractious nature of the Igdryssi. This, ultimately, was her downfall.

“The war is over, Caine. Like it or not, our side lost. You want to keep your wings?” Stinger grimaced. “You're going to have to go be a good dog to Balem Abrasax."

Caine turned away. He hunched over, clenching and unclenching a fist, fingers curling into claws. "I can't see them as people, Stinger!” His tone grew more canine, conveying just the egde of a growl or whimper. “I can only smell those god-damned pain sticks."

 _The Dowels,_ Stinger realized. _So that’s what this meeting is._ "We were wrong to use the Dowels in your training. I regret that. Marcel thought it would give us an advantage, that no one could stand against a unit of dedicated Skyjackers. She thought we could win. I told her it wasn’t right, it was too much risk…messing with your genes, combining drugs with the DNA of aristocrats…training you to act like bloodthirsty beasts…"

"Is that we are, Stinger? Beasts?” Caine turned earnest, brown eyes on his mentor. Sad, pleading eyes. “Because, if so…how the hell am I supposed to stand in the House of Abrasax? Sit up pretty like a well-trained dog? In a Legion uniform? I wasn't made for this!" 

"I know. You weren't made to serve them. You were made to hunt them." 

"You made me this way. You and the damn Designers! Fix it! Fix…me."

"What do you want me to do, Caine?” Stinger felt a swell of anger, shame, and regret. There was no way to put out the fire in Caine Wise. He would thirst for the blood of the Igdryssi—now the Entitled, and his new masters—forever. Til’ the dead might rise at the end of the world, Caine would be an addict, agitated by constant contact with his drug of choice. They’d lost the war, lost the bet. There was no undoing the programming. 

Caine quieted, surly. He wouldn’t make eye contact. He hung his head and bristled. “Just answer me one thing.” His voice was low and quiet. “Is there any way to synthesize it? The DNA of the Entitled? Like with the Dowels? I just…need to…I need to…” 

Stinger cut him off with the wave of a hand. He knew Caine was above begging for a fix. “Keep your dignity, if you can, boy.” Stinger mustered his sternest, most paternal tone. He laid a hand on Caine, grabbing him right by the scruff of his neck. “Do you really want to spend your whole life chasing some high? Sniffing the Entitleds’ undergarments for sweet fulfillment? Or will you be more? I believe you can be.”

“What else is there?” Caine snorted. “What more? The war is over, like you said. Half our people got the Bug. The Igdryssi control the juice. They have the Keepers on their side, now.”

“War isn’t everything! You’re more than just a solider, Caine.” Stinger reached behind the bar and found a half-empty bottle. He poured himself a refill, then he poured another, sliding it across the dirty lacquer to Caine. “Find your pack, your people. Like me and Kiza.” 

Caine stood. His breathing was quick; his pupils dilated. He ignored the drink: thick booze from Orous could not dilute his suffering. There would be no relief for the boy, Stinger knew, until he’d tasted blood.

“I have to go,” Caine said. “Thank you for meeting me.” He choked out the words, then scampered off. Stinger had no time to stop him, no time to offer any last drop of help or advice. 

He found his wallet and tossed 10 Cs on the bar. Then he added a generous tip. He was still pulling down a Legion paycheck, after all. Blood money. Where once, being a Legion Skyjacker had been an honor—where once he had served a Designer of true vision—now his duties sickened him. This is what there was, now: hearing briefings, distributing human “resources,” coaxing winged warriors into the service of the damned. 

_At least there’s Kiza,_ he assured himself. _And these._ He relaxed his shoulderblades, and great, insect wings pulsed into being.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caine copes with the Abrasax brothers. Stinger pleads for mercy.

Balem Abrasax is returned from a desert planet. He is draped in lustrous fabrics; a gold-threaded keffiyeh, a black cape and shendyt. His garments lift and breathe in the air as the chariot pulls forward; his skin, untouched by the sun, is still parched and white, and maybe, just a little dry.

Caine can hear a river rising, far off. _That can’t be right._ Caine is on Balem’s cruiser. Caine can hear his own footsteps fall in time with the rest of the phalanx. Legionnaires flow behind Balem Abrasax, a man who covets perfect order and is not afraid to purge unwanted parts to refine or simplify. The river of soldiers ebbs, ready and waiting to spill blood at the whim of the Entitled. Caine marches in perfect step. Any imperfection might bring down the wrath of Caine’s new master. There is no way to know.

The splices wear masks to make themselves faceless. To erase what used to be. Caine’s breath feels damp inside, like the misty slap of a cloud during flight. Caine watches his feet as they march: left, right, left, right. He is too close to Balem, today; he can smell the blood. _Igdrys._ It sticks to his tongue like paper; burnt, wooden, grainy. He smells it always, through layers of air and fabric and skin. 

It seems to Caine that Balem does not need his footsoldiers; they are decorative objects in a House too spacious to appreciate them. Caine’s days are often like this, now; trot out in a pretty row. Turn, stop, wait. Sit up and beg. The sound of rain in distant memory lifts his head from these tasks. _Floodwaters are coming. Seal the airlocks. Triple the watch._

It has been time uncountable since Caine has tasted Igdrys. There is no reason this day should be different than any other. Balem lids his grey eyes behind long, dark lashes, and exhales out from soft, inconsiderably chapped lips. A plume of Igdrys-scent soaks the air. Caine’s nostrils twitch. He hears himself sneeze. Not once, which would be enough to mortify, but several times, in a fit—snorting, snuffing sneezes like the beast Caine shares so many genes with. It is not only a response to the scent—it is, more accurately, a bestial expression of complete dissatisfaction. Caine feels horror. He wishes he could melt away.

Balem’s attention is caught. “Legionnaire,” he whispers, “What is your assignation number?”

Caine steps forward. “My Lord, Class C 4424-32, my Lord.” He sneezes just once more, convulsively. 

A glimmer of recognition fills Balem’s gaze. He knows that this is one of the new Skyjackers. He took them on reluctantly and hasn’t yet had time to test their limits. “Approach me.”

Caine does as told, steps falling in a thud, thud, thud.

“Do you know why you are here?” Balem asks. “More acutely: do you know why you stand _there_ while I sit _here_?”

“No, my Lord.”

“It is because of evolution.” Balem looks off in his tired, far-away manner. He has the stillness of eternal stone. “Evolution has brought us here,” he explains, “just as it brings the residents of the desert planet Nostro to the Harvest. We prey on them, and therefore are superior to them. It is the natural order. Do you know why I am superior to you, splice?”

“No, my Lord.”

A subtle smile crosses Balem’s lips like a wisp of sand over white-hot dunes. “Your makers reached too far, too quickly. They tried to touch the face of stars that only the Igdryssi are entitled to. This is our _birthright,_ confirmed by, if nothing else, evolution. So it went at Mirdach.”

Caine flinches. He was at the battle of Mirdach. He remembers it with perfect clarity. It was a desperate last stand by the Designers, a planet-grab intended to carve out a small, independent state—hopes for an “equal empire” were long-passed. Caine was there, that day, to taste the ecstasy of breaching Igdryssi shields, the fierce joy of slaying unsuspecting aristocrats, and the grey despair of retreat, when tides finally turned. He remembers the funeral sirens for Marcellian Cahun. She was never found.

“History selected us,” Balem says. He is gloating, for his own enjoyment. “It has not selected you, splice.” He sighs, softly, and the smell of Igdrys permeates Caine’s defenses. Caine becomes liquid. He feels the flood rise within him, triggered by grief, terror, and simple proximity to the irresistible scent. He rushes the royal’s throat, quickly, violently, before anyone knows how or why the dam has burst. This is the last time he will fly this way, feed this way. His teeth pour into Balem’s flesh and his vision goes dark.

Biting a real Entitled—a living, bleeding member of the Igdryssi—is like catching a dozen Dowels. Caine can remember holding the Dowel in his mouth, dropping it in Stinger’s hand. Stinger would pat his back, ruffle his hair. _Pack gestures._ The taste of Igdrys is the taste of praise and a warm, dry bed. Caine’s mind is registering his actions, not as a vicious tearing of flesh and spilling of blood, but as the touch of a loved one. A communion. Caine needs it. He will do it again. He will roll around in it.

Caine Wise can hear screaming. He is being carried off to a desert planet. He closes his eyes, and resigns himself to death or the wasteland—whatever is coming. When he opens his eyes, he cannot tell if he is awake or dreaming. He is wingless. Stinger is there, too, and Stinger is somehow wingless, too.

“It’s alright, pup,” the older man is saying. “I’ve got you.” Caine cannot tell if the Stinger he sees is real. Perhaps the man is a hallucination: a love-letter from his genome to his conditioning, written on the heavenly cannibal fix that Caine is still digesting. _Yes, that’s it. This must be the Igdrys,_ Caine thinks. _I must be alone here. I must die alone, here._

**\--------**

**LETTERS OF RECOMMENDATION  
** DATE 422-3-44.94  
TRANS: C.O. STINGER APINI  
INTRN: Verdicts and Sentences, Legion Affairs, Commonwealth Min. of Orous 

EYES ONLY

I am messaging this to provide the court with information vital and pertinent to the matter of hearing 83982, Balem Abrasax versus SKYJACKER Class C 4424-32 (Caine Wise.)

As the court is aware, it was on my direct recommendation that the 6 Class-C SKYJACKERS from Unit 171-A were approved for continued service under the new Entitled Code.

Some background information on the Unit: 

Prior to her death, Dr. Marcellian Cahun, my former partner, maker, and commander, oversaw regulation of subjects Unit 171-A in regards to gene expression. Alterations were executed on both a structural and chemical level during all phases of transcription by qualifying the interaction between RNA polymerase and an "Attack" promoter, encouraging the expression of the gene. Methods were also take to increase the attraction of RNA polymerase for the promoter, indirectly, by changing the structure of the DNA. This process has proven to be irreversible, although some subjects are responding well to targeted hormone therapy to block cellular catabolism. The long term effect remains: pituitary and adrenal enhancements cause a persistent "bloodthirst" which responds only to the RRBK7 protein (designated, _"Idgrys"_ ). Though I had no part in the decision to employ regulation of gene expression as a military tactic, my oversight was required to perform the now-infamous "Hurricaine Drills:" sessions of competitive exposure to RRBK7 and post-exposure hypnosis. 

Unit 171-A was culled from 65 original applicants (25 discharged during Hurricane Drills, 3 destroyed by Warhammers durig the conflict at Mirdach.) Of 37 Class-C SKYJACKERS remaining active and available for duty, only 6 were deemed, by myself and the MedCenter, STABLE and suitable to serve in Igdryssi presence.

Which brings me to the matter of SKYJACKER Class C 4424-32. This individual does maintain a defective CCX Gene, as well as defects on the CCAT and OCT2 chromatids. Despite smaller stature and obvious defective traits (i.e. albino-ism) he has cleared all training and was deemed STABLE and SUITABLE TO SERVE. However, the defects in 4424-32 rendered him extremely sensitive to the rigors of his training, especially on a psychological level. I knew this, but I believed he could overcome complications and remain a valuable resource. His combat skills are extraordinary and he is highly equipped to handle problem solving, search-and-retrieve, crisis management, and all types of aerial encounter.

It was my decision to assign 4424-32 to the House of Balem Abrasax. I would like to take full responsibility for this mistake. It was my task **and mine alone** to ensure that all Class C SKYJACKERS were matched to appropriate assignments. The Treaty of Entitlement has allowed us all many ways to serve: I evaluated 4424 in terms of his suitability to face long-term medical experimentation, factory/stockwork labor, shipping  & delivery tasks, management of off-world labor camps, or service in a House. My choice to place him in the House of Abrasax was affected by my own sentimental attachment. I did not wish to see him live out his days in a labor camp or laboratory.

This was an error of resource management. Not a flaw in the splice himself. I therefore beg for your prudent consideration of a pardon for this young solider. I offer myself up for requisite disciplinary action.

**SIGNED: STINGER APINI, SKYJACKER CLASS-B 2922-35  
[END]**

 

**\--------**

“Mr. Wise! I am so grateful that you agreed to grant me the _pleasure_ of your company tonight. I am Titus Abrasax, third Primary heir to the House of Abrasax.”

Titus drifted slowly into the room and savoured the introduction with sluggish theatricality. He let the lycantant drink him in: a freshly-bathed, clean-shaven, listless boy draped in a green silk shirt and soft, striped trousers. His hair fell loose in a light wave, tickling his neck like the plush carpet tickled his bare feet. To Caine—newly plucked from Deadland, _only just_ spit from the dark mouth of nightmares—the young Abrasax glowed like an obscene fantasy, a caricature from feverish dreams about small comforts. Titus shimmered, like a spider’s web—a filament of beauty in the center of Caine’s vision. _Just like a spider’s web,_ Caine thought: iridescent, dangerous, fragile, precise.

Caine watched the young man—for Titus was youthful, that day, newly regenerated—slip his hands into deep, sheer pockets and then fall into stillness. Titus Abrasax had a way of looking people over. His eyes started with Caine’s mouth—gagged, of course—and bound wrists—and then slid lower, unabashedly resting on Caine’s bare chest, muscular thighs, and other assorted body parts. Caine, painfully self-aware, resisted the urge to crumple, to protect his exposed belly from the predator in the room. _Now is no time to be shy._ He hung his head low, subordinate, and moved his feet a little wider apart, tensing just a little. He allowed himself to be fixed in Titus’ gaze.

There was really no need for introductions. Caine had heard—long ago, before the world was a savage, meaningless wasteland—he’d heard exactly what it meant to be pulled from a prison cell and carried off to the Titus clipper. He’d heard enough to know exactly what Titus meant when he purred that word, “pleasure.” Pleasure, where this man was concerned, only had one meaning. But Caine had agreed, he’d agreed to come. Anything to escape the hell he’d been in. Anything to kill the pain.

“I do apologize, of course, for the necessary measures.” Titus gestured to the gag tech: a single-valve mouthpiece, wrapped around Caine’s face to muzzle him. Titus did not need to apologize ( _was he always just running off unnecessary words?_ ) for the device. It had been Caine’s idea—his demand, in fact. Given his history, the Lycantant had insisted on a gag _and_ handcuffs. Caine didn’t trust his self control around another Entitled. The attack on Balem cursed Caine’s life, took his wings, but it had felt so good, tasted _so_ good. Caine shuddered at the visceral memory. 

“I’m going to remove your gag,” Titus announced. “I’d like to talk to you about coming to work for me.”

_If that’s all you wanted, I’d still be wearing a shirt,_ Caine thought. In a second, however, all thinking vanished; Titus was coming closer. The smell hit Caine like a wall. It was baking bread, spiced meat, honey, smokey firewood. It burned and crackled in Caine’s sinuses. _Igdrys. Rip. Tear. Igdrys._ He felt himself bite down on the mouthpiece, felt his hands jerk against their bonds. It took everything in his power to keep still, to suppress the instincts.

The young Entitled swayed confidently, withdrawing eager hands from his pockets as he moved. He came close to Caine, much too close, reaching around to unfasten the gag. The brush of Titus’ wrists was impossibly tantalizing; Caine heard himself growling out inhuman noises. Caine heard the device _click_ and then Titus moved away, a tease, pulling himself back quickly and leaving only his outstretched hand behind to remove the tech. Caine felt himself inadvertently nip at Titus’ fingers.

“Ah ah ah, Mr. Wise. Not just yet. Business before pleasure.”

There was that word again. _Pleasure._ It passed over Titus’ full lips, drawing his Cupid’s bow into a subtle, welcoming smile. Caine felt something like excitement stir below his belly. He tried to hide it, biting back shame and disgust, but the smell overpowered him. He’d been months in isolation, and now the thing he needed was so close, so close…

“My my, Mr. Wise. You are everything I was promised…and more.” Titus allowed the lycantant to suffer for another moment before turning, slowly, and crossing the room. Caine watched him pour a drink and drop into a silken chaise with the voluptuous motion of falling snow. Titus settled, striking a casual pose, and began to talk.

“You see, I have grand intentions for my part of Abrasax Industries. Over the past year, I’ve been bringing a few ex-Legionnaires into my employ—splices familiar with gene printing, retrieval of Tertiary assets from seeded worlds, and perhaps, some re-integration work. I take advantage of discount rates at the Deadlands, hand-picking the very best. I require many new hires, and good help is _so_ hard to find. There are upcoming tasks which, I think, might suit your particular skillset. So I have purchased your contract. We can train you to reflect recent changes in protocol. Of course, it is always polite to verify: would you _like_ to come and work for me?”

Caine blinked back surprise. He hadn’t expected an offer of actual, long-term employment. _So by_ business, _does he actually mean…business?_

“I can see you’re shocked, Mr. Wise,” Titus pouted, a childlike frown crossing his pretty features. “Let me guess. You thought I’d brought you here to have you as part of my harem? Are you terribly disappointed?”

Caine cleared his throat and searched for his voice, long quiet. A few tries yielded words. “It’s not that,” he grunted. 

Titus looked skeptical. “I might assume,” he said, “that you have believed every nefarious thing you’ve heard about me. Be glad I did not do you the same disservice. I have heard much about how resourceful you are. How legendary. How feral.”

Caine felt his face flush, hot. Titus was referring to the attack. “I assume you know… what happened.”

“With my brother? Yes, yes. But you will soon learn, Mr. Wise, that I am not like my brother. Do you see, even now, how considerate I am to your needs?” The Entitled sipped his drink, and gazed thoughtfully at the alcazar’s many day/night screens. “Working for me will be infinitely more rewarding than working for Balem. I am a much better master. I have no doubts that you will be a much better dog.”

"Maybe. Maybe not.” Caine’s words sounded too doom-ridden, too dolorous. He should have felt happy; for the first time since he’d been drafted as a Skyjacker, someone was _choosing_ him. Really choosing _him._ Why was he trying to convince Titus that this wasn’t a good idea?

“You may as well give in, Mr. Wise. Let’s give this a try…” Titus trailed his fingers over his green silk shirt, teasing it apart, slipping a few impatient buttons from their holes. Bare neck, collarbone, and just a suggestion of pectoral peaked out, inviting Caine, enticing him. Caine felt a wash of blind hunger—he was instantly mad, ravenous. He heard himself scream in frustration. _Igdrys!_

"You want this, don't you, Mr. Wise? I know all about it. The training foisted on you by the Designers. The bloodlust. You want this so badly. Come work for me, and I will give you your heart’s desire. A small taste, every night. You will never hunger."

It was everything Caine had fantasized about, and more: endless time wrapped in that smoky scent. Titus promised an endless fix, a House to belong to, and a rescue from the hell Caine’s life had become. And yet…

“I…can’t,” Caine whispered. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Really?” Titus was all arched eyebrows and bewilderment. “Is this guilt from your judicial sentence? You know, I can get your wings back. If you serve me well, I can secure a pardon for you, and for Mr. Apini also. You’ll be a free man again.”

“I’ll never be free,” Caine told him. “It’s not just the punishment. It’s the crime. I want to do it again.”

“Ah, I see. It all makes sense…” Titus stood, languid, spilling his lines and angles across the canvas of space once more. He spread like fire toward Caine, a cloud of seductive warmth. “Mr. Wise. I'm sure that I can help you. How would you like to be able to walk through the world unaffected by this?” He undid a few more buttons on his shirt. His eyes gleamed with cruel promise as he tested Caine’s will. _Is this too much? How about now? I can make it all better…_

Caine swallowed a pathetic cry. "You can't deprogram me. The training goes too deep. Something is broken.”

"I can, and will, remake you. If you do not wish to fulfill your cravings, we can ween you off them, slowly. There is infinite time. All you need to learn is to channel your…desires. Into something else. A project.”

The lycantant shifted uncomfortably. “So you think you can help me?”

“Yes, Mr. Wise. I’m here to help you. All you need to do is trust me,” Titus smiled. “It will be my _pleasure._ ”


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 ties up with the canon. Caine meets Jupiter. Stinger is a sad bee dad. No one can say no to Titus.

**BEFORE**

He hadn’t been sure, at first. There was so much chemistry in the operating room—the smell of the anesthesia, the sterilizer, the Keepers. He’d barely had a chance to pick up Jupiter’s scent before he was holding her in his arms.

After that, Caine’s training kicked in. Not the Hurricane Training, no, not those fierce instincts instilled by rain, battle and prize-fighting. Not the guidance, from Stinger and the other commanders, that once forged Caine into the “perfect weapon.” That was in the past, and though it still formed part of him, he had other training, now. He had the methods of Titus Abrasax. Titus’ instructions pressed on the top of Caine’s mind, weighing down the bloodlust, trapping the demons in the foundation of his being. There were new structures composed of new paradigms. There was new knowledge and understanding. Titus had thrust Caine head-first into a regimen of revised Legion protocols, then supplemented that regimen with cognitive manipulation methods every bit as intense as Hurricane Drills. The wily prince used seduction, Igdrys, and promises to reinforce the good behaviors. He used constant threats of death to police the bad. It worked. Caine’s memories of the Dowels faded away, replaced by memories of the alcazar. Memories wove themselves around the smell of silk and a bevy of new skills—skills Caine needed for serving someone in the RegenX-E trade.

Caine’s new training kicked in when he was alone, with a half-naked tersie, in an empty room at the top of a tower in a city on Earth. His senses went dead while he fulfilled the protocol: dressed her, placed his gun by her side, informed her of his identity and her situation, and convinced her to step into the tractor beam. He executed the steps of his mission with infinite patience, because he could be patient, now. He’d learned. Titus had taught him how to go slowly, to persuade, to set people at ease even in the most extreme circumstances. Caine could hear Titus’ voice, his instructions: _you must make them feel comfortable. It all comes to comfort, eventually._

Then there was a second—when he stepped off the ledge—that Caine got distracted. He held Jupiter close to his body and, in the shallow end of his awareness, a ghost of a drowned thing swam to the surface. _No, it can’t be._ He couldn’t be smelling Igdrys, couldn’t be swooning through a cloud of that baked-bread scent. He couldn’t hear over his heart, pounding in his chest. Then: “Oh, shhi…hold tight!” _The Shadow Chase._ There was too much adrenaline informing too many reactions. It all happened so quickly. He snapped into soldier mode, instincts of self-preservation activating.

That’s when Caine began to question why Titus had sent him there in the first place.

Caine did not deceive himself: he was still a lapdog. But wasn’t everyone? Hadn’t he always been? He’d found a way to answer to a new master. He’d returned from the dead. He owed Titus Abrasax a great deal, but he knew (as well as anyone) that an Abrasax could not be trusted. Caine was still waiting on those sheeves of Pardon. _Finish this job, and they’re yours,_ Titus had said. _This is the job. This is the one._

Somewhere in the air over Chicago, while being pursued by the reckless Shadow Keepers, Caine scented Igdryssi. He realized he needed to know why; why were they being chased? Why did she smell that way? Why was _she_ “the one?” 

On the I-94, she started talking. She asked questions and Caine answered—the whole while hearing her pulse echo in his ears. They were alone in the car and he could not escape her voice. _Her scent._ Jupiter Jones wore the same halo as other Entitled, but she was so completely different: loving, sweet, curious, brave. _She can’t be one of them. She can’t._

If Jupiter had the genes of the Igdryssi, then Titus had concealed a vital truth. He’d knowingly put Caine in deadly peril. Caine’s thirst whispered under the noise of the earth vehicle he was driving. He could hear water. He could feel rain. Titus had helped him manage. What had he said? _Learn to lie to yourself. You don’t want what you want; you only want what I want._ Caine tried to focus on the mission, to make small talk with Jupiter Jones. He tried to lie to himself about his desire, but it was too confusing. His newfound fortitude was about to be tested. If he was going to pass, he was going to need help. He was going to need firepower. He was going to need Stinger Apini. 

 

 **AFTER**  
Stinger compressed into the garden dirt, feeling like he’d been hit by a Hunter’s Death Launcher. Of course, he had been. His eyes fixed on a small white cloud hanging motionless in the sky. It was a bright, frothy nimbus, drifting, splitting apart the golden sun. Now and then, the shadows of birds flitted between the sky and the honey-sweet, honey-colored blossoms of a nearby forsythia. Concussed and immobilized, Stinger slipped into a daze. He thought of the way Kiza’s hair looked in summer, outdoors. _Yellow._ The rays of a yellow star filtered through a thick, hazy atmosphere.

Kiza had been sick too long. For a second generation splice, the gene plagues were inescapable, especially on Earth. Stinger had no choice in regards to his station; most Marshals were exiled to farm-planet posts in the disease-ridden third world. He had kept his daughter safe until he couldn’t anymore. When she got sick, well, there was the juice, but never enough. _Bloody supplylines,_ he thought. Goddamn backwoods farm planet. They don’t pay me enough for this. He was saving up to take Kiza off-world and get her a full Recode. Or he _had_ been. Before this business.

A rich summer wind stirred the garden, bringing odors of lilac and huckleberry, sunflower, and salal. The scent of corn sifted through Stinger’s nostrils as if he could take it in his mouth and swallow it. _Harvest season, soon._ The Marshal lay still, breathing the bouquet of flowers and unmown grass, listening for sounds of struggle. He couldn’t imagine Caine Wise would let some stringy, wholesale Hunters steal a bounty like Jupiter and escape with their heads. He strained to hear noise or commotion; nothing. The dim sound of far-off traffic echoed like the bourdon note of a distant organ. 

Stinger let out a rattling breath and attempted to move. The weight of broken ribs pinned him to the soft earth. _Stillness it is, then._ The shock was lifting. There was a thundering ache in Stinger’s body, haunting his senses like the last passionate throb of a symphony. Sounds and smells of the garden began to fade, pale in the wash of overwhelming pain. _That boy. That goddamn boy. Goddamn Caine Wise and the goddamn trouble he brings me._

On some level, Stinger had expected Caine Wise to show up, someday, with some really big problem. Tersies called that sort of thing “chickens coming home to roost.” What Stinger hadn’t expected was the Recurrance of Seraphi Abrasax. Now that was a goddamn problem. First, because she’d have to go through Integration to claim her title. Stinger had an obligation as a Marshal to the Aegis. It was _his job_ to protect a tersie marked for Integration or Entitlement. Caine knew that. He showed up here, with all that talk of Titus Abrasax and “don’t you want your wings back,” Stinger thought. But he must have known, must have at least suspected that Jupiter Jones was Entitled. Couldn’t he smell the Igdrys on her? 

That was the second goddamn issue. _The Caine Wise I knew was a slave to Igdrys. Infected by it._ Maybe he’d changed since he took up with Titus Abrasax, but just to be safe, Jupiter should never be alone with Caine. _What the hell was Titus thinking, sending an ex-Skyjacker after a mark like her?_ Stinger loved the boy but he wasn’t about to forget. He would never forget the sobering fact that Caine Wise tore a man’s throat out.

Balem Abrasax. He’d probably deserved it. _There’s my third goddamn issue._ The eldest heir would be gunning for mother’s reincarnation, no doubt. It’d be war, and it’d be ruthless. _Come to think, all three Abrasax siblings are probably in this._ Stinger took another rattling breath. He wondered which Abrasax hired the Hunters that had successfully shot him up and laid him down. A blue-green dragonfly swept gracefully through his frame of vision. _Yeah. Has to be Kalique. She’s got her head on._

Another breath turned into a moan, then a cough. Stinger tasted blood. Minutes slipped by. The sound of a truck on the highway neared, then suddenly stopped, the engine sputtering to quiet. A car door slammed. A young lady cursed. “Oh, beeswax!" 

Kiza rushed to Stinger’s side, kneeling in the grass. “What happened here!” she shouted. “Where’s Her Majesty?” 

“Kiza, love,” Stinger choked, his voice tight. “Could you run and get the Recell?” 

“Yeah!” She darted back to the house. Stinger closed his eyes, feeling dizzy. He must have swooned, because he came to a minute later, with Kiza checking his vitals. “Here, drink this,” she said, administering the first aid. “I think we have to do a tonic.” 

“Topical is fine.” 

“ _My thorax_ it is! You’re concussed. This is the last of the Recell, by the way. Drink up.” 

“I’ll get more,” Stinger assured his daughter. He didn’t know where he’d find the cash. Draining the last drops, he felt his ribs stitch together and his head clear—though some pain persisted. “Help me in, yeah?” 

Kiza lifted her father and let him half-lean, half-stumble toward the house. “Tell me what happened. Where’s Caine?” 

“Probably on Cerise, with Her Majesty.” Stinger sighed. “We had a visit. Keepers, and then Hunters.” 

“Hang on,” Kiza said. She led Stinger to a chair on the veranda. “You sit tight. I’m going to put the groceries away. Then you tell me _everything._ ” 

“Yes ma’am,” he agreed. Better not to fight. He slouched onto a wicker bench and breathed in the breeze from the garden. He didn’t wait long, however; Kiza came right back out with a look of concern. 

“Hey, dad? You’ve got an FTL. Titus Abrasax wants to speak with you.” 

“On what frequency?” 

“He says he’ll holo-transmit. What should I tell him?” 

“To buzz off,” Stinger murmured under his breath. Then, out loud: “Tell him it’s going to take a few minutes to get the wireless working again.” 

"Alright. I'll make tea." 

When the copper sheeve was finally fully charged and spitting iridescent three-dimensional images into the air, Stinger sat in the dining room facing a perfect likeness of His Lordship Titus Abrasax. The device buzzed slightly (and spit out blue sparks) but Stinger could see the heir’s face: too pretty, too unabashedly bright and sharp. Titus shone like a dahlia with daylight coming through the petals. His eyes were wide; impatience was evident. 

“Greetings, Your Lordship. How can I be of service?" 

“Where is she?” Titus seethed. 

“Where is who?” 

“Don’t be daft.” Titus could intimidate as well as his older siblings could, but he rarely tried. He was trying now. “Keepers interfered with my transport but my people _saw_ Caine Wise make off with Jupiter Jones. They headed in your direction.” 

Uneasy, Stinger decided to be tough and direct. “Excuse me for saying so, Your Lordship, but you’re damn lucky they did. Do you have any idea what it means to send Caine Wise to lift an Entitled? By himself?” 

“I’m aware of his predilections. I feel he was adequately prepared.” 

“Prepared? You didn’t even tell him what he was after!” 

Titus’ impetuous expression morphed into a sinister smile. “Do you question my methods, Mr. Apini?” 

“No, Your Lordship, but—“ 

“With my assistance, Mr. Wise has made great strides in recalibrating the reward centers of his brain. I’ve been keeping him sufficiently stimulated.” The heir lifted his chin, haughty, and narrowed his over-lashed eyes. “He’s been _very_ obedient as of late. Your Skyjacker programming won’t be an issue.” 

Stinger felt a stab of anger and revulsion. _Manipulative bastard!_ “You’ve been exploiting him. Feeding him Igdrys, keeping him hooked.” 

“Just as you did.” 

“No.” Stinger fought back memories of rain and togetherness: Caine, drenched in the storms of a training session. Caine, gulping down beer and bread between a long day of excruciating drills and a night of bawdy celebration. Caine, passed out in the barracks, united in sleep with his brothers and sisters. “It’s not just a biological imperative. He’s Lycantant. He needs a pack. Igdrys alone won’t hold him to you, especially not now that _she’s_ in the picture." 

Titus’ smug expression faltered. “Jupiter Jones? What could she offer him?” 

Stinger snorted. “Everything you do, I imagine.” 

Skepticism played over Titus’ features, followed by a subtle note of doubt. He’d obviously never considered the possibility of betrayal. With a new source of Igdrys in the picture, Caine would be free to bite the hand that fed him. Titus caught himself in this realization. Hastily, he shifted back to an expression of bemused arrogance. “I told Mr. Wise what punishment his failure would invite. Additionally, I promised that his success would result in his full pardon, and the reapplication of his wings. Yours, as well. A bounty which still, may I remind you, stands.” 

“I’m sorry, Your Lordship. My obligation to Her Majesty means more than my wings.” 

The heir frowned. Childlike. “I understand. A Recurrance is a significant event, for all of us. So allow me to ask, my friend: what _would_ be to equal to the importance of this event?” 

“What?” Stinger didn’t follow. 

A devious curl crooked the corner of Titus’ mouth. “How much does Jupiter Jones mean to you, exactly? If you were to express it in terms of a numerical sum?” 

Smash! A glass shattered in the kitchen. The noise inserted itself into the conversation like a rude eavesdropper. It carved out space and left an awkward silence. Wracked coughing filled the room. “Hang on,” Stinger said. He hurried to check on Kiza. He found her bent over, red-faced, struggling for breath. Shards of a ceramic kettle flowed across the floor in rivulets of amber tincture. 

“Kiza!” Stinger’s heart seized. He went to her in panic. “Kiza, are you alright?” 

“Sorry, dad,” Kiza nearly whispered. She was shaking. “It’s just a fit. It’ll pass.” She gasped and twitched. A gentle breeze blew through a massive hole in the front wall of the kitchen. Caine Wise and his “firepower” had damn near left the house a ruin. 

Stinger never felt more helpless. _Damn plague! Damn Caine Wise! Damn!_ “You just relax. I’ve got this.” Stinger gestured to the spill and the wreckage. 

Kiza unfolded. In moments like this, she had a certain manner. It came from her mother. Once, when Marcellian Cahun had addressed a hostile crowd, she’d smouldered. She opened with the intensity of azealia and closed with the flippant disregard of oleander. She never asked for anything. She declared. She proclaimed. She planted seeds and watched them grow. 

“I’m fine,” Kiza announced. She managed a few normal breaths, standing up a little straighter. “I’ll be fine in a minute. You need to go talk to Titus Abrasax.” She wheezed. “Tell him he owes me a new kitchen. 

Stinger scowled. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes! I’m fine. Don't you keep an Entitled waiting.” 

“Alright.” He’d been holding a tension in his shoulders since the day he lost his wings. Now, he relaxed, slouching into the sad finality of the thing he knew he had to do. “Yeah, alright.” 


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcellian Cahun is a mad scientist (or a feminist Marxist revolutionary?)  
> Abrasaxes reflect.  
> Jupiter learns something alarming on Cerise.

**DESIGN (Qua Process)**

She wore a white labcoat over crushed pleats of gold and black taffeta--a gown for the gala where, later that evening, she would lobby for continued funding. She'd mount the podium and address the Igdryssi. She'd barely have to speak at all. Over-styled princelings and their servitants would daydream through her words while drunkenly fingering each other's priceless garments under shady buffets of their own gilded boredom. She'd smile, and hold out a sheeve with boilerplate checks (for donations to her research) and they'd dab their tattooed wrists to seal the documents like children applying sunscreen at the beach. She'd mouth empty acronyms embellished with _"technology!"_ here and _"innovation"_ there. They would fund her, oh yes, they would. They would dig deep for the lovely Marcellian Cahun.

The Entitled had money to spend like water--and what were they wetting, the fools? A revolution, nursed in the test-tube jungles of the lab, grown in the animal bodies of her hive, her swarm, her pack, her pride. Well, perhaps not _hers_ \--she believed that the splices belonged to themselves. She believed in an equal empire. Marcellian Cahun had made more military-grade splices than any other living person in the universe. But she was not just a "maker." She was a _Designer,_ an All-Mother, the Queen Bee. She saw herself as the bloated body from which life came--the tired-eyed, flat-footed, soft-bellied singer of lullabies. Her laboratories were the best because she modeled them on the wombs of women--and thus removed the obligation (the _obligation_ , but not the _option_ ) of women like herself to treat their bodies as factories. The Igdryssi exploited this technology with a savage market and as-yet unassailable system of oppression. Marcellian's hives built cities, harvested crops, seeded planting after planting while the Entitled sipped honey and bathed in nectar. That was the order of things.

Marcellian Cahun's vision of her creations as _people and not property_ was not a popular one. Her voice of dissent was just a whisper, currently, a whisper under her white coat and the fluorescent light in the silent, sterile space where she stood. Later, at the gala, she'd murmur "thank you" as the Idgryssi unknowingly sponsored the end of their own epoch. They'd comfortably continue the unapologetic killing, exploiting, enslaving, _consuming,_ and they'd keep smiling, as they had for millennia, as they might have done for millennia more. They would hear nothing of her plans. Not yet. She'd keep quiet, tonight. She would return to the lab to make noise, tonight, oh yes, she would. Marcellian Cahun had _so much noise to make._

She opened a workspace above the copper sheeve and began to conduct her orchestra. The bio-assembler software allowed real-time render by touch, text, or tone commands, applying edits to the model and then uploading them to the tiny, corresponding and corporeal templates. _Molto allegro_ Marcellian sang to the microcitizenry of heredity. She made motions as conductors make. She plucked at the neon-blue, enlarged plasma-simulation of a human-enhanced gene-print. Every double helix thrummed duplicitously--an exercise in counterpoint. She scoured polypeptide arpeggios and reinforced the steady rhythm of exon, intro, exon. Everything was broken into pieces and remade, _divergente,_ a rough draft of a new breed. A magnum opus. She stood, an artist and a programmer, watching the organism develop before her. She encoded ferocity. She encoded force. She encoded speed and sound and strength. She bound the attributes of her creation into a tight loop--

DESTROY the Igdryssi (she dragged and dropped reagents 3 through 5 to RRBK7)  
TEAR down their cities (she took care to mind the peptide synthesizer)  
TAKE back yourselves, TAKE back your planets, (she double-tapped the visualization to increase coupling efficiency; she watched for racemization)  
DRINK their blood, BREAK their machines (she swiped down to clean up processes, she opened a new tab--)

\--and when time would come to execute, Marcellian Cahun would clutch command in her clever fingers and watch her children perform the music of liberty, on repeat. 

This was the end of a world where her people could be bought or sold. She would call the program _Skyjackers._ Other Designers would follow her lead, oh yes, the Lycantants and the Isoptera--anyone who knew the value of coming together and fighting as one. All human beings were built of the same basic elements. This was the beginning of a world of _sharing,_ of family.

Is violence still violence if it is Designed? Is war still war if it is flawless? If it is ever-present in the elected time signature, even when all's quiet between verses?

Life asserts itself. Marcellian Cahun did not need to set fire to the gala. She didn't need to set the putsch in motion. All she needed to do was Make, Design, Create, _Mother,_ and she could give birth to an epistemological shift. The next generation would do the rest. Marcellian Cahun stood in the lab the night of the Orousean Gala and nailed her thesis to the doors of life itself: the pillared nucleotide, the tellomeric windsor, the gateway proteins, the _gateways._

 

**THESIS (You Begged Me to Do It)**

A young Balem Abrasax is seated beside his mother when a small person of no consequence informs them that another splicing factory has fallen to rebel Skyjackers.

"And so it should," Seraphi sighs. "Perhaps it is time that the Designers rally, at long last."

Balem shifts, a little. He is already dangerous after the fashion of the eldest sons of Queens. "But surely, mother," he notes, "our regency of the world is, as you yourself have said, the design of evolution?"

"All designs yield unintended consequences," Seraphi replies. She looks deeply into his crystal-grey eyes. "It is the nature of the conflict between the beauties of one's plans and the horrors of their execution."

 

**EXECUTION (Qua Being)**

Jupiter and Kalique lounged side-by-side in the stone-tiled courtyard. A couple of long, plush daybeds lifted the two sunbathers into the warm light of Cerise’s nearby star. Feeling the slow mist of nearby waterfalls, Jupiter exhaled. Dew glistened on fronds of the ferns, on the sweet pink flowers that listed, bowed, and finally broke from their stems. A carpet of flowers littered the grand balcony, the petals pounded softly by mist and rain. After a five-course meal (and as many technicolor cocktails), Jupiter felt totally relaxed. She was finally at ease with her gracious host. 

"Enjoying your stay?" Kalique asked. She wore a pink silk eye-mask to shade her eyes from the sun. The luxurious blindfold matched Kalique's candy-coral swimsuit--Jupiter had convinced the heiress that nude sunbathing was outside the cultural comfort zone of someone born Russian-via-Chicago (at least, while they had audience.) Maledictes and a small guard stood nearby, careful not to cast any shadows. 

"I had a great time," Jupiter confessed. "I wish it didn't have to end."

Kalique replied with her characteristic lilt: "But you're welcome to stay!"

"Oh no, I'd better get home," Jupiter answered. "I'm pretty excited to see Caine, anyway."

"He's coming for you sometime today, isn't he?"

"Yep. Legion Admin is sending a transport." Jupiter scanned the sky instinctively. Of course, she wouldn't be able to spot a clipper ship crossing space with naked eyes. She was always looking up, anyway. The many low moons of Cerise captured Jupiter's curiosity like a prism catching light. There was still so much she did not know.

"So…hey, I was wondering if we could pick up on our conversation from dinner," Jupiter said. "About the Skyjackers?" They'd been chatting on and off about this since the awkward hunting party, but Kalique kept brushing it off. Jupiter got the impression that this conflict majorly informed the current state of galactic politics; she had every intention of reading up on it later. At that moment, though, something in particular was bugging her. 

"Ah, yes." Kalique pulled off her blindfold and blinked into the sun. She gestured to a sim for some cream to dab around her eyes. "What can I elucidate, my dear Jupiter?"

"You said that there was an uprising over splice rights. That the Skyjackers were fighting for some kind of equality." An iridescent insect came humming by from the balcony garden. It alighted on Jupiter's knee. "I guess I'm just wondering, why couldn't y'all come to some kind of agreement?" Jupiter brushed the bug away softly.

"Oh, Jupiter," Kalique laughed. "These are complicated matters of economics--the likes of which you and I could never understand."

"Try me." Jupiter turned large, earth-toned eyes on Kalique, pinning her in an intense stare. 

Kalique startled, like she'd seen a ghost. "Very well, very well!" she said. "My, my. Where to begin. We received word that a prominent Designer was engineering a product to be RegenX-E-competitive. It allowed for synthesis by cloning undifferentiated stem cells during interphase.” 

“Cloning…” Jupiter squinted a little, turning the words over in her mind. It was no ‘differential equation slips,’ but it took her a second. “I thought you said that cloning was a no-go?”

“Marcellian Cahun, a Designer, believed it could be viable,” Kalique explained. “She believed that the process would eliminate the need for traditional RegenX-E production. The end of the age of the harvest!” Kalique rolled her eyes skyward in open dismissal.

“Wait, seriously?”

“It was absurd. A pipedream. The product was unstable." A single soft curl came loose from Kalique's carefully coiffed up-do; she exhaled, puffing it playfully away from her eyes. "A group of Houses, Abrasax included, banded together to prevent Cahun from gaining marketshare. We vowed to only use nectar harvested from safe, pure, _proven_ sources." The heiress shot Jupiter a look of reassurance, rich in sincere conviction. "You know, large-scale operations that the industry can _trust._ We were called the Igdryssi for this reason--and because we were powerful. _Are_ powerful." 

"But what happened? What did you do?"

"Well _I_ did nothing much of anything. The Igdryssi as a whole--Balem was fairly involved, if I remember--arranged for Cahun's supply routes to be taxed. They cut off her research funding. They filed grievances to bind things up. But it was too late; she had anticipated confronting these problems." Kalique tilted her head, offering meaningful eye contact. Her cheeks absorbed the glow of the pale sun. "Ask me how."

Jupiter felt a sense of dread. “How?”

"She'd built killing machines.” Kalique's voice was even, relaxed. “Entire military units of splices specifically engineered to fight the Igdryssi. Specifically made to thirst for their blood. To…tear out our throats.” 

"Oh, no." She felt sick. 

"Oh yes. Your hunter, Mr. Wise, is just one small part in a much larger ordeal," Kalique concluded. She leaned back, uncrossing her legs and adjusting her pink swimsuit. "Hmph," she huffed, "I think I may get tan lines..."

"Why wouldn't Caine tell me all this?" Jupiter asked. Sure, Caine could be a bit laconic. He was complicated. She'd thought they'd been getting to know each other slowly--hadn't they?

"I imagine he'd thought it'd put you off," Kalique mused. "I mean to say, _I_ wouldn't want to discover that the splice I'd been bedding was originally engineered to kill me. Although, it might add something in the way of excitement…him, secretly wanting to tear me apart…"

Jupiter interrupted with an urgent wave of her hands. "I can't think about that right now! Caine will be here soon. You're making it sound like you think he's feral or something. I mean, I know what he did to Balem. But that's in the past."

Kalique raised a perfectly shaped brow in skepticism. "Well. It isn't my place to gossip. But you might want to ask Titus about it."

"Titus? Why Titus?"

Movement caught the corner of Jupiter's eye; Maledictes was coming over. "Your majesty, some news," he announced. "A Legion transport approaches." Jupiter felt a flutter of relief. _Caine._ Despite making the journey to Cerise with the intent to learn new things, if she stayed too long, Jupiter started to lose track of herself. The universe was vast and strange, and even stranger through the lens of Kalique's experiences. If their conversation turned to things that _Titus_ knew best, then Jupiter knew the lesson had gone on long enough.

"Make ready to receive them," Kalique replied. "Thank you, Maledictes." Kalique set aside her suncream and reached for a towel. "I'm going in to have a bath before they arrive. Don't suppose I can persuade you to join me?"

"Join…?" It took Jupiter a second to remember the culture thing-- _"like your ancient Romans,"_ Kalique had explained, the first time she'd invited Jupiter to bathe together. "Oh, no thanks. I'm just going to chill out here and wait for Caine."

"Suit yourself," said the hostess. She flounced off in an entourage of royal guardians and whirring sims. Maledictes, surprisingly, remained on the balcony.

"Don't you need to go meet the Legion ship?" Jupiter asked. "To do air traffic control, or something?"

"I have already sent them a confirmation." He gestured to the holo-port on his neck. "I anticipate we have some time before they set down. Would Your Majesty perhaps like her own _private_ bath prepared?"

Jupiter laughed. It was amusing, somehow, that he knew to offer her privacy, but Kalique didn't. "Thank you, Maledictes, but I'm fine out here." Jupiter wondered what other culture-clashes Maledictes might know about. After all, Jupiter thought, anticipating Kalique's needs and handling her affairs must require a pretty in-depth knowledge of the universe. "Hey, Maledictes, can I ask you something?"

"At Your Majesty's leisure."

"I guess I want a different perspective on this war. The one between the Designers and the Entitled?" Maledictes stiffened. He brushed long, manicured fingernails across the front of sweeping, scholarly robes. Jupiter saw his fingers curl like talons. She thought she might try asking a more specific question. "What happened to the clone-RegenX? And if the Skyjackers were so savage, why did the Splicers lose?"

"Well," Maledictes sniffed. He hesitated. "I believe that Lady Kalique would say that the Splicers lost because they were meant to lose. As is the divine order of things." Jupiter was not entirely satisfied with this answer. Nor did the owl splice seem to be satisfied; he could not be more obviously uncomfortable. He avoided eye contact, blinked, stretched out his head. It was so unlike him, so agitating, Jupiter couldn't help but ask--

"Where are you in that divine order?" Jupiter thought she saw the feathers tighten on his neck. Avian features were too hard to read. "Look, I don't want to make you nervous. I promise I won't tell Kalique what you say, if that helps?"

"Lady Kalique is aware of my feelings about the war," Maledictes said. "You see, I lost two sons in the conflict."

"Oh!" Jupiter gasped. Of course, she hadn't considered. She felt terrible for prying. "Oh, I'm so sorry. You don't have to tell me. It's none of my business."

"It's…alright," he said. "Your Majesty should be well-informed. Shall we make our way to the landing?"

Jupiter got the impression she was being directed, and that whatever Maledictes wanted to say, he would not do so on the courtyard of Kalique's alcazar. She took his hand and they walked, arm in arm, out through the arched door of the east tower. A long, dusky staircase spiraled up in repeating circles of stone. On several stories there were ledges that opened out onto cliffside windows; Maledictes hurried her past these, up the stair, plunging into a dark leg that twisted pointlessly away from any doors or outlets. When they reached the top, Maledictes withdrew a key from his robes and unlocked a little wooden door. A dramatic yank rendered it open. He ducked through; Jupiter followed.

Then they were outdoors again, gazing down on the meticulously-kept, ruby-colored jungles of Cerise. Maledictes fluttered over a path paved along the top of a high wall--possibly a dam. They were facing the rear of the palace and could not see the colonnade or the landing strip. Running water thundered afar; Jupiter's eyes followed the noise toward a mighty congregation of aqueducts.

"Where are we going?" she shouted. Maledictes put his finger to his lips, shushing her. He leaned into her ear.

"What do you know about the gene plagues?" he asked.

"Absolutely nothing," Jupiter answered, confused.

"A virulent mutation targets only cells with markers specific to the cloning process. It emerged at the exact moment that the Designers were gaining traction against the Igdryssi. It obliterated their version of the regenerative product."

"Oh!" Jupiter bit her bottom lip. "So that's what happened?"

"It is widely believed that the Igdyrssi sabotaged a cloning facility to create the mutagen. It cannot be proven. The Entitled claim that Marcellian's product was never stable."

Jupiter sensed there was more. "I'm guessing there's a 'but’…?"

Maledictes nodded. "Many splices--especially second and third generation splices--share certain cellular markers with the clones," he explained. "The gene plague has been killing them, too. It killed my sons. It haunts many still today."

"That's terrible!" Jupiter tried to imagine Kalique or Titus walking into a clone facility with a purse full of deadly mutagen. She had a vivid recollection of Kalique's gloved hand holding a dead bird. "I really keep trying to see the best in them…but that's really terrible. How can you keep working for an Abrasax, knowing they might have had something to do with it?"

Maledictes smoothed his little beard. A damp mist drifted off the dam and breathed humidity into his feathery, greying hair. "I don't believe Lady Kalique was directly involved," he said, "but I do what I must. As we all do." He turned and made his way back to the little wooden door. "Come. Let us go meet your Legionnaire."

Jupiter descended a couple of stories down the tower, trailing Maledictes by a few dusty steps. They followed repeating patterns of stone down to the west facade and sculpture garden. The arches of the arcade cast heavy shadows onto the palace wall like dark teeth in the mouth of an ancient leviathan. To their left, the runway and landing stage crowned a beautifully mosaiced bridge over the gorge. It glowed in the sun, ivory and byzantine.

"There you are!" Kalique called out from the base of the west stair. She looked refreshed; she was, of course, perfectly made-up despite just having bathed. Six bedazzled sims hurried along behind her, not quite able to mimic her style of careless, ethereal floating. "Did you see? Your splice will be here at any moment. Come along!"

Jupiter spotted the tiny ship in the sky. It twinkled, distant, as if anticipating a signal to permit approach. Like the first intergalactic vessel Jupiter ever rode in--through space, anyway--it was a little Hunter's Pod, designed for a crew of three and cargo. Maledictes brushed the node on his neck. “Legion transport, we are awaiting your arrival,” he murmured.

Nothing happened. They waited. The transport hovered, stationary. Maledictes tried once more: "Legion transport, I repeat, you are clear to set down."

"What is the hold up, I wonder?" said Kalique. Another awkward moment passed. Jupiter fidgeted. She watched her hostess make assorted, Abrasaxian _time is money_ faces. Finally, the ship began a slow descent culminating in a bumpy, crooked landing. The door wrenched open.

Jupiter held her breath. No one exited the vehicle; the cockpit appeared empty. "Caine?" she called.

A shadow moved into the doorframe. Jupiter glimpsed the brush of silver feathers. At last, he emerged: just Caine, breathless, eyes wide, hands in the air. He was alone and entirely disheveled. His Legion-issue uniform was torn and dirty; something dark and red was spilled over his face and chest.

"We need to talk," he said.

Jupiter stared, open-mouthed. She felt her heart pounding against her chest. Everything she'd learned that morning replayed quickly in her mind--and yet, none of it seemed to matter. In that moment, all that mattered was fixing whatever problem Caine Wise seemed to be having. "Ok," she replied, miraculously calm. "What's up?"


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day to day life of a Legionnaire. Titus gives Caine an assignment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I have good news and bad news.
> 
> The good news is I've FINISHED writing this fic. The ending is good and makes sense and ties everything together. The bad news is that it took several chapters of frivolous, suggestive prose to get there. With probably lots of unnecessary doting on handsome Titus.
> 
> Only good news is allowed in here.
> 
> -So- the last few chapters will be staggered for some edits but there won't be any more long delays.

**NOW**

“You know,” Stinger said, “there’s one thing these tersies do right.”

“What?” Kiza shouted, from the kitchen.

“The newspaper,” Stinger replied. “It’s a bloody relief from those sheeves. Burning out your eyes. Crashing if they haven’t charged enough. Plus, I like paper. I like the way it crinkles.”

_“What?”_ Kiza shouted, again. “I can’t hear you, dad.” She made her way into the den, clutching a plate in one hand and a damp dish towel in the other. She scowled. “What are you going on about?”

This was a standard part of their morning routine. Stinger sat in a gingham-upholstered chair, sipping coffee and thinking out loud. Kiza was compelled to buzz waspishly back and forth to hear him. Since her recode, she woke early, dressing before dawn most days to attend her various tasks around the farm and house. If Stinger was persistent he could distract his daughter to the point of abandoning her chores. Sometimes she’d simply give up on dishes and take to playing piano in the den. Stinger loved her playing. She’d been masterful before the bug—or, more specifically, before the recode, which was known to affect a splice’s neuro-plasticity. Short term memory was generally fine; skills and adaptations acquired over time were somewhat degraded. Kiza had traded a lot of her piano technique for her restoration to perfect health. It had been worth it. Stinger wasn’t sure, but he thought Kiza had a healthy shine, now, that was like her mother. She was like a hard, white pearl, catching the light—all alabaster skin and force of will. When Kiza struggled through warm-up pieces—eyes intent and, sometimes, turning honey-gold—she looked just like Marcellian. 

_What a thing I’ve done,_ Stinger told himself, puffing up with pride. Kiza glared at him irritably.

Stinger flashed a grin from behind his newspaper. “Sorry, it wasn’t important.”

Kiza sighed, returning to the kitchen. When she finished her morning chores, she would go out for the day. Stinger, fully reinstated, would start ploughing through his daily allotment of paperwork from Legion Admin.

Not really _paperwork._ Sheevework. Work. Dull, lifeless, endless, mechanical _work._

The day they put his wings back in, Stinger cried tears of joy. Part of him had been missing: not just the physical appendage, but part of his identity. Stinger was many things: a father, a problem solver, a splice. He was also a Legion Skyjacker. He’d missed the title, the rank, and the structure; some splices needed that. Stinger thrived when he was part of a greater purpose. He thrived on unity and cohesion. He’d given it all up for Caine, but Caine needed it just the same. _That’s why he’s finally gone to recertify, no doubt,_ Stinger thought. _’Bout time he gets back to work._

Stinger had reported for recertification months ago, just after the breakdown at the Stockworks. With fresh new wings, he was in perfect shape, ready to take on whatever assignment the Admin handed down. Surprisingly, he was offered his former rank and position—Resource Commander. Little did he know how the command structure had changed. Everything was automated, now: standardized, run almost entirely off AI. All drills and training exercises were conducted on isolated, sim-run space stations by pre-taped holograms and assist-drones. New Legionnaires (and recerts) were shipped out to their assignments on self-nav transports pending orders entered directly into the Legion computer system. There was no level of administrative personnel between the Entitled (who placed the orders) and the recruits who filled them. Stinger’s work as a Resource Commander was reduced to compiling reports on sim inventory, sending out maintenance schedules, pulling surveillance data, and filling out supply chain manifests. He did half of it from home.

Things had been messy after the war. This system was much more organized. It was a well-oiled machine. It was machine-ruled. There could never be another rebellion.

Stinger ruffled his newspaper and felt the print come off on his hands. “Look,” he shouted to Kiza, “ _’Septuagenarian Spots Skunk at Kankakee County Fair.’_ Do these tersies know how to tell the news, or don’t they?”

“That’s not news!” Kiza came back into the den in a huff. “Dad. Listen. If you want to tell me something, come into the kitchen, ok?”

“Aww, c’mon! There could be something important here.”

Kiza shook her head. “Oh my God. Dad. _I’ll_ pull the _real_ news off the FTL, and bring it to you. Will that keep you occupied?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“No trust me!” she squeaked. “I do!”

Kiza returned a few minutes later, swiping through a sheeve. “Couple of messages on the wire. Jupiter says hello from Cerise…”

“She’s out there again, is she?” Stinger folded up his paper and took a sip of coffee.

“Yeah, they’re charadriffing today. She’ll be riding back with Caine day-after-tomorrow.”

“Anything from him?”

Kiza swiped to the next message. “Nope. There’s one from Diomika on Orous. Looks like the Splice Rights Amendment is getting held up in committee again…” Kiza snorted. “Oh, and Titus Abrasax was just appointed Grand Chancellor.”

“Titus?” Stinger raised an eyebrow. “For Grand Chancellor?”

“Yeah. It mentions the fines levied against him after the wedding. I guess he has a lot of donors, though. He’s popular.”

“So is the skunk at the county fair.” Stinger reached for the sports section. “Anything else, before I get back to what really matters?”

Kiza rolled her eyes. “No. Well, there’s the daily rundown for Plague Warnings. Station 78, 208, and 209 are on alert.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Stinger assured her, “they’re always sending out alerts. Anything on lockdown?”

“Just 208 and 209. Full quarantine.”

Stinger nodded. “Not bad, just two, for 1800 Legion properties. Your old man is making headway.” He gestured to Kiza to hand him the sheeve. “I’ll make a note for the maintenance crew.”

Kiza shrugged and left the sheeve beside Stinger’s half-empty coffee cup. The Skyjacker had almost returned to perusing the newspaper when a thought occurred to him. He tensed. “Oh beeswax!” He grabbed the sheeve and started scanning the text, scrolling through the report. His eyes jumped from phrase to phrase, each filling him with dread—

**Type IV Synth-Cell Plague Detections  
** level 6 contaminants  
SCHEDULED CLEANSE

“Kiza!” He shouted. He jumped to his feet and nearly knocked Kiza over in the door to the kitchen.

“Dad, what is it?”

“They’re going to kill him.”

“What?” She flushed red when anxious; her freckles darkened. “Kill who?”

“Caine!” Stinger snapped. “He’s on Station 208, doing his recert!”

Kiza’s eyes widened in horror. “Won’t they evacuate?”

“If any of the splices on board trip the scan as plague-positive, they’ll recode the whole station.” Stinger grabbed his jacket and bolted from the den into the armory. “He’ll keep his genetic programming, but lose the conditioning that allows him to control it. I need a transport. Now!”

“The Exitdoor in the barn is charged, but only enough for one portal.” They’d purchased a used teleportal to celebrate Stinger’s return to the Legion. It was outdated technology—a tall, noisome device, all dirty bronze and glyphs, with a mildly radioactive micro-portal in the center. It was unreliable, and best used sparingly—but it would take Stinger to Station 4. He could rent a ship from there.

Kiza tossed her apron aside and grabbed her jacket. “I’m coming with you!”

“No,” Stinger shook his head. “Too dangerous. He’s going to fight his way out of there.”

“Against drones?” Kiza squeaked, terrified. “How?”

“It’s Caine Wise,” he said. “This is what he’s made for.” Stinger pulled a weapon from his stash, armed it, and stormed out the front door. Kiza followed, close behind. “If they reboot him to factory settings, he won’t retain half the training we gave him to keep his violent nature in check. They’re going to regret it.”

“Will you be able to stop them?”

“Too late for that.” Stinger headed for the barn. He wiped his hands—still dirty with newsprint-ink—on his jacket, and heaved the weathered wood aside to reveal the crackling blue Exitdoor. “If I hurry, though, I may be able to stop _him.”_

 

**THEN**

“Look how strong you are,” Titus Abrasax said, trailing a playful hand down Caine’s bare shoulder. “I know you can do this task for me.”

“Who’s the target?” Caine leaned, supine and weightless, into a mess of decorative silk pillows. He steadied an arm against Titus’s back to keep from slowly twisting in the zero-grav. Caine flinched as he touched the latex straps on Titus’ favorite “pajamas.” The garment didn’t look ideal for sleepwear, but then, Titus had suggested doing briefings in bed to work on Caine’s focus. The young Abrasax was definitely dressed to pull focus: perfect abs and pink nipples peeked out from translucent rubber. The promise of Igdrys floated under the conversation like a prickling whisper.

“She’s going by Katherine Dunlevy,” Titus replied. “But you may need to track her by scent.” The heir was seated sideways across the frame of Caine’s hips, his legs crossed in elegant suspension. Behind them, a beam of blue-tinged light kindled a halo around the floating edges of Titus’ hair. 

“As my Lord wishes. Is that everything?” Caine’s fingers twitched open and closed like the hands of a sleeping addict. He was grasping within a dream. Any second, the briefing would end, and he would be fed. _If I can just hold on…_

Titus’ lovely features slipped in and out of shadow. A sliver of sparkling light fell over his mouth; Caine spotted a wicked smile. “Don’t be so eager, pet. There is one other thing.” Titus moved slowly--so _very_ slowly, as can only those with eternity to spare--to straddle Caine’s chest. 

Caine felt the grip of Idgrys crashing through his senses. Warm, dense compulsion wrapped--like stiff cloth--around Caine’s mouth, nose, and throat. But Caine had spent some time, by then, learning how to choke. He had learned to hear his mission over the sweet thunder of Igdrys.

“What is it?” he said, sounding calm. He would only be fed if he could sound calm.

“This is, I’m afraid, absolute necessity,” Titus sighed. “She must be alive.”

“Not a problem,” Caine growled. He squirmed under Titus’ hips. Igdrys was throbbing through his mind like waves on the shore. He didn’t dare reach out, pull the Entitled closer to him; just beside the bed-chamber, Famulus (and a couple of servants) waited with rope and tazers. Caine knew for a fact that Famulus was ready (and very willing) to defend her master if the big bad wolf lost control. She observed Caine’s movements with a wandering gaze that may have exceeded a reasonable level of scrutiny.

“It might be a problem,” Titus mused. “This will be a difficult job.”

“Can I ask why? Why do you want this Katherine Dunlevy?”

“I _want_ to tell you, pet,” Titus extended a hand to caress Caine’s neck and chest. “Why, you know you’re my very _favorite_ …” 

Famulus cleared her throat, irritably.

“…Aside from Famulus, of course. But I’m afraid it’s personal.”

Caine gestured to their relative body positions. “How does this compare to your idea of personal?”

Famulus sniggered. “We may not pay you in credits, Mr. Wise,” Titus said, “but I have the utmost level of professional respect for our arrangement. I reserve the right to hold my motivations in discretion.” Titus announced this in the most casual, faux-apologetic tone, like a waiter declaring that the kitchen is fresh out of oysters. “Furthermore, I hold you to the same standards as any other associate. If you fail to bring me the recurrence, I will have you tossed into the void. But if you succeed…” he flashed an irresistible, boyish smile. “If you succeed, I will have you…”

“Just plain tossed?” Famulus offered.

“Success will get you your wings back. Full reinstatement. I promise.”

“When?” Caine had been learning to listen for Titus’ lies, and so many of them began and ended with “I promise.” “I’m ready, Titus. When will I see a pardon?”

Titus sighed. He rocked back on his hips—slowly, grinding against Caine for effect---and flipped his fingers lazily at his servants. They handed him a sheeve.

“See this, Mr. Wise? I hold your pardons in my hands. In fact, I believe Mr. Apini is stationed on earth. Perhaps you’ll have occasion to deliver the good news to him, while you’re there.”

For a moment, Caine’s head cleared. “Stinger?” Caine sat up, drifting away from the gentle pressure of Titus’ thighs. “I owe him.”

”Finish this job, and you can pay him your debt,” Titus said. “This is it, Mr. Wise. This is the one.” Seeing that the pep talk had been effective, Titus handed the sheeve back to his servitant. Then something in the heir’s body language changed, and Caine knew that the briefing was finally over. Titus’ lips turned up like music, he began to toy with the silver buttons on his rubber slacks. “Will you need a fix of my…genetic material…before you go?”

“You know, actually? I’m good.” Caine swiped a hand outside the grav-beam, pulling himself to his feet. There would have been a time—not long ago—when Caine could not refuse Igdrys. He found his shirt and coat, sliding the leather gracefully across his shoulders. Titus watched from the bed, silent and poised.

Caine almost made it to the door. He hesitated. Something thrummed low and deep in his genome.

“Well…maybe.”


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caine makes a choice.

**THEN**

_”Does any part of you want to bite me?”_

They had many things in common, the young maid from earth and the seductive, bastard Abrasax.

They both smelled, just a little, like bread and ash, and cosmetics, and latex rubber gloves. They were both beautiful, in a pale, pointed sort of way. Like stars. Jupiter was a warm sun, shining out, and Titus was something ancient, wreathed in hellfire. A great red giant, fusing heat and soot to his degenerative helium core.

They had similar large, hazel eyes, and pouting lips, though Jupiter’s eyes drank the world with wide, wet wonder while Titus’ lips tasted the world and spit it out again. They were both Entitled, and Abrasax, and that meant something. Jupiter lived in a small city house with her large, extended family. Titus lived on his clipper, alone in a sea of exotic splices. Caine was uncertain which of these situations best resembled the “pack” that Stinger had once, so long ago, told him to find.

_”Does any part of you want to bite me?”_

Caine had taken a deep breath and looked down into Jupiter’s clear sense of purpose. She didn’t know what she was offering. She couldn’t be sure. Did that matter? She’d been flirting with him. Wanting him. For the first time in Caine’s life, he had found himself playing the role of _someone wanted:_ not for his ability to hunt or kill, but for _him._ She wanted him to bite her. She was choosing him.

_What if I choose her, too?_

He knew that he could not. Caine was a stranger to Jupiter, and foreign in more ways than one. They knew nothing about each other. At least Titus _knew._ Titus understood what Caine was capable of. Titus had pulled him out of _hell_ , taken him in when he was just a feral splice who’d torn out another man’s throat. Titus had given him a new life and a way back to the world.

 _”You used to work for Titus but that’s not true anymore,”_ she’d whispered.

She’d said it like she could make it true. Caine was skeptical. Yes, he was angry with the young Abrasax for concealing details about the mission. It was dangerous. But wasn’t Caine _also_ dangerous? Wasn’t he equipped with all the tools to fight a fleet of Shadows, a clique of Hunters, and his own hungry demons? Wasn’t part of that thanks due to Titus? And surely, Caine could understand why the young heir would have accepted the risk? _Jupiter is a living monument to his mother,_ Caine realized. The thought made him queasy.

It’d been a bumpy mission. They were sidetracked to the Honey House. Then Cerise. Then Orous. Standing there in the Hall of Titles, it had occurred to Caine that it wasn’t too late. He could find a way to get Jupiter to the Clipper, unharmed. He could still fulfill his contract.

He’d taken a step back. He heard himself mumble something about Stinger, and getting his wings back. 

It wasn’t long before he realized he’d made a mistake. 

But also, he’d made a choice.

With Titus he had never had a choice because he had never once refused. There was no _yes or no_ in the House of Titus Abrasax; there was only endless _YES._ Part of that was Titus, but part was on him. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t a person, at first; he was a tool, a weapon. A weapon does not refuse reloading. 

But Jupiter offered herself and _he had refused._

He’d stepped away first. He’d lied to her face. Whatever power the Igdrys swimming in her veins held over him, he had resisted it. _Does any part of you want to bite me?_ He had been more than the sum of his parts.

Now, Caine Wise was drifting through space, taking small breaths. Now—if he could survive—Caine Wise was ready to choose the life he wanted for himself.

He made up his mind in that moment. Jupiter Jones would be his life.

If she let him, he would carry her home in his arms and stay by her side until one of them stopped being. If she let him, he would pry those Pardons from Titus’ (preferably dead) fingers, rejoin the Legion, and petition to be assigned to Jupiter’s House Guard. If she let him, he would be with her, fully and willingly, like he’d never been with anyone.

_”Does any part of you want to bite me?”_

If she let him, he would want to now. Not need to. _Want_ to.

 

 

**NOW**

 

Caine Wise was strung up, bound, and gagged in an entirely familiar way. It was familiar to _him,_ of course; not so to Jupiter, who sat nearby, nervously perched on the edge of one of Kalique's circular lounges. Jupiter’s hair was piled atop her head in ornate, Abrasaxian fashion; her face shimmered with perfect makeup and a patina of anxiety. Caine couldn’t help but notice how soft she looked. Something twisted and writhed in his stomach.

Caine turned his head away as far as he could. Chains tugged his limbs, tight and restrictive, but he could just manage to move far enough that Jupiter would not fall in his line of sight. Unfortunately, this put him facing Kalique; she too was _Igdryssi_ , and the pull of her was just as strong. He had an alarming sense that, if he stared, he would begin to see through her skin. She had appeared totally unphased by Caine's rough landing on Cerise--not to mention his immediate, unexplained request to be restrained. Caine had expected that his state of arrival might be met with shock or hostility. He’d disembarked the Legion transport, pale, alone, barely capable of human sentences and spattered all over with blood. He’d identified himself as a potential threat. Kalique had smiled knowingly and obliged to shackle him. She’d called for cuffs and chains, ever a gracious hostess and eager chaperone.

Half a dozen robotic guards dotted the edges of the room. Their weapons were trained on Caine, ready to fire instantly should he break his bonds. _As if they could stop me,_ Caine thought. He swallowed a wave of nausea. 

"Is this room too dark for your tastes?" Kalique asked, hovering. A late sunset (and early moon rise) streamed through the windows of the alcazar. Kalique waved a servitant over to the console to dial up the ambient candle-light. "What about the guards? Are these enough, do you think?"

"Why do we need _any_ guards?" Jupiter contended. She pulled a semi-transparent kaftan—borrowed, obviously—close to her body. “I’m sorry, Caine, but could you possibly explain why we’re doing all this?” Jupiter looked to Caine, conveying equal parts bewilderment and trust.

"He can't speak, dear. The gag." Kalique gestured, and a sim crossed the room to undo Caine's mouthpiece.

Caine felt himself shudder when the gag came loose. He was sweating all over, and starting to shake. "These guards won't be enough," he said. His voice had dropped, inadvertently, to a hoarse growl. "We should contact Stinger."

"Yes, Maledictes received an FTL from Mr. Apini,” Kalique chimed. “I understand he is in transit. His transport should arrive at any moment." _How much does she know?_ Caine wondered. _How much does Stinger know?_ "In the meantime, is there anything else I can do to make you more comfortable? Anyone?” 

"Wait, can't we just…can't we just _talk_?" Jupiter entreated. "Caine, why is Stinger coming? What is _going on?_ "

Her pleading tone hit like a punch to the gut. Caine’s guts were already sore; he couldn't take it. He took a deep breath. "I’ve done something. Something terrible.”

“Ok. Well, whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together.” Jupiter’s eyes betrayed concern, but not even an increment of fear or disgust. Caine felt violently unworthy. Jupiter stood, and Caine could smell Igdrys pulsing off her skin. He closed his eyes, but was unable to close himself to the rhythm of her heartbeat burning in his senses. She was coming closer. He bit his tongue and _tasted_ her footsteps. In a panic, he yanked against his tether--

"Don't! Don't…come too close to me. It's not safe right now." 

“Caine, what’s wrong?” She was an arm’s length away. If he wasn’t bound, he could reach out and touch her. “Look at me. Why isn’t it safe?”

Caine hesitated. He couldn’t look Jupiter in the eye; instead, his gaze found Kalique, who regarded him with patient curiosity. Caine spoke directly to her. “There was a gene plague quarantine at Station 208. The station AI forced a system-wide recode.” 

“Yes, Mr. Apini mentioned something along these lines.” Kalique moved very slowly and spoke in a hush. _She’s been around splices,_ Caine thought, _so she must know we return to a base state after recoding._ Caine tried to gauge how much of the days’ events he’d have to say out loud. With Igdrys was buzzing in his head, every word was a hardship. _And I’m sure she’s heard from her brothers how violent my base state is._ “Are you recoded, Mr. Wise?”

“Yes,” Caine answered. The room fell silent; Kalique froze, her dress like blue-white ice in the dwindling light.

“So…” Jupiter looked puzzled. “So you’re _not_ sick, right?” She panned back and forth, from Caine to Kalique, with such confusion that Caine could barely stand it. “…Ok then? I don’t get it. Is everyone ok?”

“It is my understanding, though I may be mistaken,” Kalique said softly, “that Legion protocol during a type IV contamination is to lock down the whole station.”

“That is correct,” Caine confirmed. 

“And yet here you are before us,” Kalique mused. Her tone made the imperative perfectly clear: _explain, please._

Caine decided he was going to have to start at the beginning. _For Jupiter’s sake, at least. She deserves to know._ “At the time of the alarm, I was on the training deck running drills for recertification. There were three officers with me. All splices. We received drone-proctored examinations to determine our medical status. We were instructed by station AI to report to the yellow deck airlock and withstand containment.” Caine paused as he felt a wave of fever and sensation; language jammed like paste against the back of his animal incisors.

Kalique nudged him along. “Well? Did you report to the airlock, Mr. Wise?”

Caine felt himself flush red. It required all his focus to hold his head up, stare straight ahead, and debrief. “When the order came down, the other officers explained the significance of the lockdown, and the forthcoming protocol. They believed that all splices on the station would be destroyed to prevent the spread of plague.”

“Destroyed?” Jupiter’s eyebrows jumped.

“It’s not unheard of,” Kalique muttered. “The plagues are very serious.”

“In this case, the protocol called for us all to be recoded. But we didn’t know. The others declared their intention to commandeer a transport and thereby escape the quarantine. I expressed that we should await Legion orders. They proceeded to the transport with intent to depart without leave. I followed, with intent to monitor them. We were then overcome by android sentries and subjected to a forced recode. At this point I…” How could he tell them? There had been screaming, and the sound of metal and sparks, but he didn’t know how much damage he’d done. He knew he’d had the same effect on the station as a hurricane has on a coastal town. _At this point I lost my mind._ He didn’t know if he’d damaged the station irreparably or if he’d hurt anyone badly. How could he tell Jupiter what happened when he didn’t exactly _know?_

“I…made a tactical decision to return fire against the sentries and proceeded to leave the station on my own.”

“And the other officers?” Jupiter asked.

“I have no information.”

“At any juncture,” Kalique prompted, “did you receive an order to lay down your arms and yield to protocol?”

“Many times,” Caine answered. “I was insubordinate. I…lost control. I was…I was unable to…”

“You were unable to regain control of yourself after the recode.” Kalique sighed. “This is very serious.”

“What?” Jupiter turned on Kalique. “How? We don’t even know if anyone was hurt.”

“Jupiter,” Caine said. He usually reserved her given name for intimate situations; now, Caine felt her startle at the sound, as he felt it rumbling guttural from his chest. “You don’t understand. I’m…I’m a piece of equipment. I destroyed other, more expensive equipment in violation of a direct order.”

“Caine,” Jupiter said. A sternness seeped into her manner. “Caine, look at me.” Caine hunched deeper against his chains. He tried not to look, but he could tell from her voice that her arms were crossed. She was going into what she called _full Bolotnikov._ “Look at me! I cannot believe I have to tell you this. You are more than just a killing machine. Listen! Do you know how many times you’ve saved my life? How sweet and funny and wonderful you are? You’re one of the good guys, Caine. You’re _my_ good guy.”

Caine looked up at her, and for a second, something relaxed in him. A moment before, the richly furnished room felt like a cave: a confusing, indoor place where he did not belong. Jupiter brought about a change. When she treated him like a human being, he felt comfortable in the romantic parlor. He could smell the sandstone walls, the velvet fabrics, the night breeze coming in from the colonnade garden. He smelled plush, perfumed carpets woven of thread dyed with oil. 

But above all, he smelled Igdrys.

“You don’t know what I am,” Caine told the woman he loved. “I haven’t told you everything.”

Jupiter’s arms uncrossed. “You haven’t?”

“No. Jupiter…” Caine groped for the words. The room was slipping back into something threatening. “There are things you don’t understand about me. About what I am and how I was made. Sometimes I lose control. When I lost control on the station…I’m not sure that I can get it back. I might try to rip your throat out.” 

Jupiter shook her head. “Kalique explained to me about the designers, Caine. I know all about your Entitled Instinct. I know you would never…”

“I want to!” he snarled.

Jupiter jumped back, reflexively. For a second, she stared in surprise--like she’d never seen Caine before. Nobody spoke. Then footsteps fell in the hallway. Someone was running towards them.

“Caine!” Stinger appeared in the door to the alcazar. Sweat glistened on his forehead; hexagonal discs shined out his eyes in translucent, parallax gold. He took a second to catch his breath and spotted Caine hanging off the wall in chains. Their eyes met; Caine couldn’t tell if Stinger wanted to hug him or box his ears. Stinger did neither, but instead, pulled a bottle from his coat pocket and took a quick drink. “Got here as fast as I could,” he wheezed. “I pinged station 208 before I rented a transport. I thought it was too late. You were already gone.”

“How did you know to come to Cerise?” Jupiter asked.

“I thought he might make for Your Majesty. Caine…” Stinger crossed the room, and reached a hand out to touch the nape of Caine’s neck. Caine felt himself shrink down and away. The canine part of him had forgotten Stinger in the recode. It would not accept the gesture.

“Listen,” Stinger said, taking a slow step back. “I understand what happened. I’m just glad you’re ok.”

Caine growled. “If you understand what happened then you know I’m not ok.” He could feel his pulse starting to hammer. “What are conditions on 208?”

Stinger set his hands on his hips. “From what I can tell, there’s been considerable damage, and we had to send a clean up crew to do a second recode on the other officers.” Caine felt queasy. He couldn’t breathe. “Now hold on!” Stinger said. “Don’t get upset. I’ve been thinking this over on the way up.” He glanced around, nodding at Kalique. “Permission to share my thoughts?”

“Of course,” Kalique said. “We seem to be forming a committee. Speak your mind.”

“Alright.” Stinger took a few steps back and plunked gracelessly onto a studded couch. “What we have are two different and separate problems. One is bureaucratic; we have to get Caine a pardon for any damage he did. The second issue is much more serious. We need to make sure Caine can handle his impulses around the Entitled.”

“I can’t!” Caine wasn’t sure how much more talk he could take. His fetters gripped like ice; his vision was swimming, bleeding the room’s sparse candlelight into a runny lather. _I need to rip something apart._ “Do you remember last time I told you I couldn’t? And you didn’t listen?”

“As far as I know of,” Stinger went on, ignoring Caine’s outburst, “there’s one person who could solve both these problems. Someone with enough power to solve a bureaucratic snafu, but also an uncanny way with splices. Someone who was recently elected Grand Chancellor.”

Caine had a bad feeling about this. It sat on top of too many other feelings. “You can’t possibly mean Titus.”

“Actually,” Kalique said, “…that _may_ merit consideration, Mr. Wise. Given your history with my brother, he _might_ be persuaded to help.”

 _Titus._ Even in his current state, Caine wouldn’t dream of it. “No!” he barked. “He can’t help me. He never helped me!”

"Wait, what do you mean, given their history?” Jupiter looked to Kalique in utter confusion. “Why would Titus help us?”

Kalique crooked an eyebrow. A subtle gleam filled her eyes, like blood filling up a tick. “You really don’t know, do you? Well, perhaps that’s best.”

There was an awkward pause. Caine cleared his throat. “Could I have a moment alone with Jupiter?”

Kalique looked to Stinger. Stinger frowned, focusing his eyes on the patterned carpet. “Given the circumstances, I’m not sure that’s prudent.”

Caine nodded. “Understood.” Caine took a deep, steadying breath. He tilted his chin and fixated on the barreled ceiling. "Jupiter, you should know. Titus Abrasax and I were…he helped me. Titus pulled me out of Deadland, took me in, when I was just a feral splice no one could trust. He gave me a way back to the world." 

Jupiter was skeptical. "This is the Titus who sent you to kidnap me?"

"To retrieve his mother's recurrence." 

"Ok…but…he tried to kill you. He tried to kill both of us!"

Caine had never been as uncomfortable as he was in that moment. Not during hurricane drills. Not ever. "Yeah. I guess that would be what people on your planet call a lovers' quarrel.”

"Lovers? Who?” Then comprehension imprinted on her features. Her arms sprang back to to Bolotnikov position, her disapproval legible in the whiteness of her knuckles. “Titus and _you_?? You and _Titus?_ " Caine gave a little nod.

"Oh. Oh! I see." Jupiter turned away. She continued turning to and fro, as if by looking in any particular direction, she might see something completely different. She finally teetered, unsteady, and sat beside Stinger. "Just…give me a second to let that sink in.”

“I think he was probably angry when I failed to bring you in. He thought I was leaving him for you. I mean, I _did_ leave him for you.” Caine swallowed. Kalique was watching the drama unfold with mild amusement. Stinger radiated discomfort. “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to think of me that way.”

“What way? Attracted to men?” Jupiter’s eyes widened. “Caine, you know that wouldn’t make a difference in how I feel about you.”

"No, it’s not--” Caine twisted, uncomfortably. He took another breath. ”It’s not like that. I'm attracted to a chromosome that has nothing to do with XX/XY. There is a gene that only very ancient Entitled bloodlines are capable of expressing. My genome engineering makes me crave a certain amount of contact with these Entitled. Titus presented me with his genetic material and supervised conditioning whereby I learned to channel violent urges into…other urges."

"His genetic material?"

"Blood. Usually.” Caine was reminded of the depth of his desire to be having this conversation privately. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit down. “Sometimes other bodily fluids."

Stinger coughed and cleared his throat. “And that brings us to our best option,” the bee-splice declared. He stood. “What I was thinking would be this: if we put those two in a room together and Caine doesn’t go berserk, we’ll know once and for all that he’s got a hold on himself around Igdrys.”

Caine opened his mouth to object. Kalique beat him to it. “And if he _does_ ‘go berserk?’”

Stinger shrugged. “Seems like Titus could handle it.”

Kalique balked. “So if Mr. Wise nearly decapitates a _second_ of my two brothers, that’d be fine with you?”

“No, Your Majesty it’s just—Titus can obviously recondition Caine, or he can use Regenex—“

“I’ve heard enough,” Jupiter interjected. Caine recognized the Baltic determination on her face as _her_ genetic base state: a decidedly inherited mix of confidence and force of will. “This meeting is over! Everyone OUT!”

Stinger demurred. “Your Majesty—“

“OUT! All of you! I’ve never pulled rank on you, but this is not a committee anymore. This is Her Majesty and her boyfriend, talking ONE ON ONE!”

“Jupiter—“

“GET OUT!”

Kalique smiled, bowed her head and swept from the room. Caine felt immediate relief, as if the spotlight had dropped off him. He was equally relieved when Kalique left sentries behind, just in case. _This isn’t her problem,_ he observed. He felt terrible for bringing it to her home.

Stinger hesitated. If he questioned the strength of Jupiter’s grasp on the situation, he didn’t dare do so out loud. In a few steps he closed the space between Caine and himself, placing a hand on the lycantant’s shoulder. It would have been a somber moment if Caine had not been overcome by another wave of blind, animal, confusion. He heard some sound escape his mouth, then lost himself for a second. When he emerged from the dizzy blur, Stinger had departed to the hall. Jupiter was standing before him, her chin high (but slightly cocked), her shoulders relaxed and even. She regarded Caine intently, and for just a second, he wondered if she was deliberately mimicking Titus’ default posture.  
“What’s happening now?” Caine panted. His chest was rising and falling like a swimmer’s. _Why does it feel like I’m racing the tide?_

“Caine, be honest with me. What do you want right now? Do you want to be with Titus?”

“No!”

“Then you have to tell me.” She looked perfectly self-assured. She took a step towards him. “What do you want?”

“I want…” _Igdrys._ Caine’s senses ceased reeling and locked onto Jupiter. Her kaftan—almost certainly borrowed from Kalique—glittered translucent over a magenta two-piece. It looked like hard candy. _Igdrys._ Caine’s tongue sagged with the imagined texture of the clothing--icing and sugar, drizzled temptingly over the bronze swell of Jupiter’s skin. She smelled sweet, but also like kindling; he drank the air burning off of her. His keen ears searched for her heartbeat and found it, filling her, pulsing and pounding. He wanted to climb inside of it. He wanted to chew her body from the inside out until the heat of it drowned him. “You don’t want to know,” he said, “what I want.”

“Maybe not.” She took another step closer. She faced him, now, as if they were just too people talking, with no chains keeping Caine back from her. “But you have to tell me.”

“I want to sink my teeth into your stomach,” Caine said. “I want to bite you. Until you bleed.”

“Ok. Hold still.” Jupiter started to undo his bonds, snapped open the shackle that held one wrist.

“What are you doing?” Caine felt panic dive into his belly like a gull into the sea.

“I’m putting you in control,” Jupiter announced. “You don’t need someone to teach you how to be a person. You _are_ a person. You’re in charge.” Jupiter undid the second cuff; Caine fell to his knees. Jupiter pressed her body forward and titled her hips provocatively. She opened the kaftan and offered him her stomach. “Go ahead,” she said, a little breathy. “You said you want to.”

“I don’t…I…” Caine stammered. Her nearness was so overwhelming, so unexpected. “I don’t want to hurt you…”

“What do you want, Caine?” she whispered. “You can have whatever…you….want.”

He licked his lips, and felt his mouth fall open to brush against her body. He listened for her beating heart and, for a long moment, the sound of it crushed him down like waves breaking.

But something happened, then. The waves quieted; the pressure eased away. “I don't know how to explain it,” Caine murmured, his chin resting on Jupiter’s hip. “It makes a difference, you giving me a choice. Like I'm real. Like I _can_ choose.”

“I understand.” Jupiter spoke softly and placed a hand atop Caine’s head. “It doesn’t sound like you get to make your own choices very often.”

There was a truth to this that Caine could not deny. His role as a Skyjacker had always involved a certain level of subordination; he’d been a means to someone else’s end since the day he was made. When he wasn’t executing orders, he was training to be a better weapon. Stinger liked him best as a Legionnaire; even Titus had given him “projects,” had kept things business-oriented. Caine’s powerlessness over his _need_ was just a concrete representation of his lifelong powerlessness. When Jupiter gave him power, it was a shock to his system. It went against his nature—and so his nature would shut down.

Caine felt his heartbeat slowing. He was hugging Jupiter’s torso, now, holding her, leaning half his weight against her. He exhaled; whatever raging storm had filled him flowed out his lips and played, just heat and breath, across her skin. He filled with calm.

Jupiter smiled. “Do you still want to bite me?”

Caine shook his head no. “This is different than what Titus used to do. The effect is different.”

Her face darkened for a second. Then it passed. “Oh, yeah? How’s that?”

“I don’t want to bite you. But I also don’t want to have sex with you.” He looked up at her, tentative and apologetic, and pawed her hips a little.

Jupiter laughed. “Just what every girl wants to hear!” Caine recognized her tone as sarcasm, which he’d come to know as an awkward form of earth humor. Jupiter liked her jokes. She straightened and proceed to say (in a playful fashion): "Caine, please don't tell me the reason we've been having so much fun these past few months is that Titus Abrasax conditioned you to be a sex maniac. I mean, please tell me you actually _are_ a sex maniac."

Caine smiled to acknowledge the hyperbole, but he wondered. "Would Your Majesty still love me if I weren't?"

"Caine, oh my God…” Jupiter’s smile slipped away and she slid to her knees. “Of course I would!" She hugged him, hard, and moved his face to hold his gaze in hers. "Listen. Right now, all I'm concerned about is how much trouble you're actually in."

 _Right. Of course._ Caine’s spirits sank at the mention of his crimes. "There will be fines. If they are paid, and I resign my title and rank, I will likely evade court martial."

"Fines won't be a problem. I am Her Majesty’s Royal Recurrance, after all." She threaded her fingers through Caine’s hair and trailed them gently down his neck. "Do you want to leave the Legion?"

Caine could not recall a time when he had been asked whether he wanted to—or did not want to—be a Skyjacker. It was always a given: that is what he was made to do. It was where he belonged. _Or is it?_ He’d never questioned—not for a moment, not even from the dead hollow of disgrace in Deadland—whether he could be something else. Did he want to be something else? “I want you,” he heard himself say. “I want to be with you.” She was the person he’d raced to during a crisis. He hadn’t gone to Stinger, or to a Legion C.O.; he’d come here, to her. His person. His pack. His place to belong.

"Alright, we can do that.” Jupiter stood and tied her kaftan closed. She smoothed the shimmery fabric, then offered Caine a hand to stand up. “Come on. Let's get you cleaned up and let's go home."


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcellian and Seraphi strike a deal. Jupiter and Kiza chat.
> 
> The difference between a state of behavior and a state of being is that a state of being cannot be changed and must, therefore, be accepted. (Qua Process / Qua Being)

**PROLOGUE** / EPILOGUE

“I’m tired, Marci. I want to build a pyramid and lay down under it.”

Marcellian Cahun found herself beneath an emerald eve. She’d stepped outside the fundraising gala to take in the gardens; they were a sight to see. Candles blazed, brightening Birds of Paradise and lending just the right amount of chiaroscuro to sculpted statuary. In the darkest corner of the courtyard, with the faintest golden glow cast over her countenance, Cahun discovered a dear old friend: the regent Seraphi Abrasax.

“Do not lay down yet, Sera,” Cahun implored. “We can still change the course of the world.” Marcellian had gleaned from recent correspondence that the Abrasax matriarch was in the midst of a great existential shift. Cahun could not tell, from letters, what this change might bring; it was clear Seraphi’s years weighed heavy on her. Conversations like this were common, with the old ones. The topic of death was particularly casual between close friends or lovers—such as Cahun and Seraphi were. 

Seraphi adopted a put-upon, exasperated tone, like one exchanging theme ideas for a holiday party. “What can I change? My world is a desert, Marci. The well is dry. The sands are slipping away.”

Marcellian slipped into the cryptic idiosyncrasy of Entitled banter. This relied heavily on subtlety and metaphor. What were Seraphi’s true concerns, Cahun wondered, disguised in the phrase _dry sands?_ It did not matter. Cahun would assuage them. “Then let us climb the watertower.” Cahun smiled. This was the perfect opportunity for her. “Do you still keep splicers in your employ?”

“You know I do.” Seraphi’s painted mouth shaped words like ink shaping letters. Vowels followed consonants with embellishment; every syllable drew slowly and printed from a well of exhaustion and contempt. “You know Abrasax Industries is the leading exporter of military grade lycantant-hybrids. What do you _really_ ask me?”

“I have a plan.” Cahun angled toward the Entitled, dipping low in the shadows and dropping her voice to a whisper. “I want to develop a new release of splice. A splice engineered to infiltrate the Legion and facilitate a revolution. Join me?”

Seraphi’s lips curled. “You speak not of climbing the watertower, but of poisoning the well.”

“So? You say you want change! Let’s wash the world away.” 

“Alright,” Seraphi consented. She met Cahun’s enthusiasm with undiluted boredom. “l will send your specs to our breeders. But know one thing.”

“What shall I know?”

“You cannot design your own legacy,” Seraphi said. “Whatever children you create, know that they will have their own minds, their own agendas. Whatever hopes you have for them will be murdered and usurped by their silly fancies.” Seraphi looked across the garden to watch the crowd coming out of the dance. Some young Entitled—drunk, and full of music from the party—were still dancing as they spilled out into the night. Marcellian thought she saw Kalique and Titus tipping through the merry throng. “Speaking of which, if you will excuse me,” Seraphi bowed her head. “I think I see my silly fancies now.”

 

PROLOGUE / **EPILOGUE**

 

Meandering through the farmhouse den, Jupiter rested her hand on the sun-warmed grain of unfinished wood. The entire space maintained an aspect of something unfinished. Shelves and jars sat around, half-filled; spider webs and bee-hives were half-constructed and half-forgotten in the corners. Jupiter supposed that the dust in the air looked and smelled a little like sawdust. It was brown and fine, turning into tiny stars while suspended, weightless in the rays of late-day light. 

Kiza was playing the piano like she’d built the thing herself. Her hands moved over the keys, strong and familiar, flooding the speckled air with whirling notes. High notes fell like coins in a coffee can. Low harmonies resounded in halcyon calm. Jupiter felt exactly as calm and happy as the music; for her, everything was finally playing out perfectly.

Things were getting back to normal since Caine’s recode. Or at least, as normal as they ever were. The Grand Court sent Caine a summons about the damage on station 208. Kalique talked to Titus, Jupiter paid a fine, and it all went away. 

Caine did have to resign his post at the Legion. In a very odd turn, he’d decided to take a job teaching martial arts at Jupiter’s local community center. “It’s something I want to try doing,” he’d said. This actually worked out well; they had rent to pay, after all, and Jupiter still felt uneasy about spending Seraphi’s fortune on herself.

Jupiter watched and listened until Kiza finished playing. The freckled girl turned and smiled, reminding Jupiter vaguely of a spotted tiger lily. Kiza radiated joy. It made Jupiter feel younger—childlike. Despite Jupiter’s pleas, Stinger and Kiza still called her “Your Majesty” _all the time,_ which felt like the world’s strangest game of pretend. It was like they were kids, and Kiza was offering Jupiter a handmade dandelion crown. Except the crown was real. The royalty was real, and the responsibilities were real—but on days like this, when the boys were out and they both had time off work, Jupiter and Kiza were just two girls, sharing a ginger ale in the den, chatting about their families.

“Thanks for inviting me over to hang,” Jupiter told Kiza. “I love listening to you play.”

“No problem! I’m always free to catch up. How’s Caine?”

“So great.” Jupiter grinned. “He’s at the center today doing some kind of space-kung-fu demo with a bunch of kids.”

“I see,” Kiza smiled appreciatively. “And how are the Bolotnikovs getting on?”

“Oh, you know, good. Strict. I may have to quit cleaning entirely if I’m going to keep up with all the stuff happening.” Jupiter was still close with her family, but she had dropped down to part-time housekeeping when she moved out. Since “all the stuff happening” included managing a gigantic space empire, she didn’t have a lot of free time. Kalique and Titus had been surprisingly helpful lately. Jupiter got the sense that they were protecting a status quo threatened by constant change: the restructuring of Legion, Seraphi’s recurrence, Balem’s death, and an increasingly powerful Splice Rights lobby. “How’s Stinger doing?”

“Really good,” Kiza beamed. “He grumbles about desk-work but I think he’s happy to be back with the Legion.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We like to keep busy.” Kiza pointed to a nearby trickle of bees, as if to indicate that “we” included _them_ , as well. 

Jupiter watched the insects dribbling their way around the room. “Kiza, can I ask you something super personal?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Jupiter bit her bottom lip and asked what she’d been wondering since sunbathing on Cerise. “Your mother was Marcellian Cahun, right?” 

Kiza nodded. “I was spliced from her DNA and from the same hive as Stinger. I have her genes, so yeah, she was my mom.”

“But there’s more to it than that, right? I mean, she raised you…?” Jupiter knew that Caine’s splicer had sold him when he was just a baby—they had no relationship, or knowledge of one another. Kiza, on the other hand, had always seemed to mourn her designer, in the same way Jupiter mourned Maximillian Jones.

“Yeah, we all lived together. Or rather, we lived at her estate. But…I don’t know anything about her role in programming the Skyjackers, if that’s why you’re asking.”

“No! I mean, kind of…” How could Jupiter explain? Recent events had piqued her curiosity about Cahun—this woman had a role in a massively important historical revolution, but she also seemed to have had a pretty big role in Caine and Stinger’s lives. “Every other splice I’ve met has this stray dog thing, like they never had anyone to look out for them or care for them. But you had a _mother_. Do you…miss her?”

“I think I miss what could have been,” Kiza said. She idly traced a couple fingers over the keys in front of her. “But I don’t miss her. I am her.” 

Jupiter lifted a puzzled brow. “You are her?”

Kiza nodded. “It’s recombinance. Her genes are my genes. I exist, so she exists.”

Jupiter balked. “But you’re a different person. You’ve made different choices.” Then, recalling Kalique’s words in the temple of Seraphi—about genes having a religious significance—Jupiter felt herself flush red with embarrassment. _Oh God, I shouldn’t have…this is probably some massive cultural divide…_ “I mean, no offense to your religion, or anything!”

Kiza smiled kindly. “It’s ok. When I was little, my dad explained it like this. I’m cloned from my mom’s DNA, spliced with something new.” Two amber-gold bees landed on Kiza’s wrist to rest. They appeared to feel quiet comfortable; in a moment, the pair of them pushed off and buzzed away harmoniously. “I’m a continuation of my mom. Part of the same story. I’m like a different chapter in the same book.”

Jupiter thought about her own mother and father, and realized that she sort of felt the same way. _Maybe space culture isn’t that divided, after all._ “But what about when you miss those early chapters? Like, when I think about my father…” Jupiter couldn’t find a way to ask what she wanted to ask. “It’s like you said. What do you do when you miss _what could have been?_ ”

“I take comfort,” Kiza said, “because I know the story isn’t over yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This epilogue is a bit extraneous but I wanted to give a little more closure. I hope it's a good ending. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Title refers to Artistotle's Metaphysica… "Physics is in the same boat as mathematics. It studies the accidents and principles of entities, qua participating in process and not qua being."


End file.
